PMK9 

M If  3- 

iv>yr 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016 


https://archive.org/details/poemsofthomasdar00mcge_0 


THE 


POE  ~NL  © 

boston  college  library 

CHESTNUI0^ILL, 

THOMAS  D’ARCY  M c G E E . 

WITH  COPIOUS  NOTES. 

2Uso  an  lulr otiuction  anb  Jpiograjjjntal  &kdc|jf 
By  MRS.  J.  SADLIER. 


I’d  rather  turn  one  simple  verse 
True  to  the  Gaelic  ear, 

Than  classic  odes  I might  rehearse 
With  Senates  list’ning  near. 

McGee. 


Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 

Whose  songs  gush  from  the  heart 
As  rain  from  the  clouds  of  summer. 

Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start ; 

Who,  through  long  days  of  labor, 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 

Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 
Of  wonderful  melodies. 

Longfellow. 


NEW  YORK: 

R J.  KENEDY, 

Publisher  to  the  Holy  Apostolic  See, 
EXCELSIOR  CATHOLIC  PUBLISHING  HOUSE, 
3 & 5 Barclay  Street. 


1902. 


<235^ 

. M I'-te- 





COPYRIGHTED 
1 886. 


O fi  t*f  A <? 

— 


J 


PREFACE 


The  poems  which  are  now  for  the  first  time  presented  in  a collective 
form  to  the  public,  were  gathered  together  from  various  parts  of  the  Old 
and  the  New  World.  Very  many  of  them  were  written  for  the  Dublin 
Nation , as  well  under  Mr.  Sullivan’s  as  Mr.  Duffy’s  editorial  management. 
It  seemed  to  be  one  of  Mr.  McGee’s  most  lingering  fancies,  to  keep  up  his 
connection  all  his  life  long  with  the  far-famed  journal  in  whose  brilliant 
pages  he  had  made  his  name  as  a poet.  The  several  volumes  of  the  jour- 
nals he  himself  edited,  namely,  the  New  York  Nation , the  American  Celt , 
and  the  New  Era , Mrs.  McGee  supplied  from  his  own  library.  Some  of 
the  poems  appeared  in  Duffy’s  Hibernian  Magazine , to  which  he  was  also 
an  occasional  contributor,  and  others  in  the  Boston  Pilot.  Many  of  the 
best  of  his  later  poems  were  written  for  the  New  York  Tablet , the  last 
iournal  with  which  he  was  connected  ; not  a pecuniary  connection,  but 
imply  one  of  friendship,  and  community  of  thought  and  feeling  with  its 
conductors,  one  of  whom  has  the  sad  privilege  of  editing  his  poems.  I am 
indebted  to  the  Messrs.  Sullivan,  of  the  Dublin  Nation,  Mr.  Donahoe, 
proprietor  of  the  Boston  Pilot , and  several  private  friends  of  Mr.  McGee’s, 
for  transcribed  copies  of  poems  ; also  to  Mr.  Meehan,  of  the  New  York 
Irish  American , for  files  of  Duffy’s  Nation,  without  which  I could  not  have 
completed  my  collection.  By  Major  Maher,  of  New  Haven,  Ct.,  I was 
loaned  the  missing  volume  of  the  American  Celt,  for  1852.  Those  written 
for  the  Boston  Pilot  were,  of  course,  juvenile  productions,  lacking  the  grace 
and  finish  we  find  In  those  of  his  later  years.  These  I have  placed  as  a 
sort  of  appendix  ai  the  end  of  the  volume.  Unfortunately,  some  of  the 


IV 


P It  E F A 0 K. 


poems  are  still  wanting,  as  I observed  on  the  author’s  lists  of  his  poems 
the  names  of  some  that  I could  nowhere  find — some,  too,  of  the  most  valu- 
able— such  as  “The  Spoiling  of  Armorica,’’  “ St.  Bridget  and  St.  Flaine,’’ 
“ Earl  Sigud  and  his  Sons,”  “The  Yale  of  Angels,”  “ The  Dog  of  Augh- 
rim,”  “The  Isle  of  St.  Iberius,”  and  other  historical  poems.  Should  any 
of  these  be  found  hereafter,  they  will  be  given  in  another  edition. 

In  the  arrangement  of  the  poems,  I have  followed  the  actual  course  ol 
our  poet’s  mind.  I have  placed  the  Patriotic  poems  first,  the  Legendary 
and  Historical  next,  then  the  Poems  of  the  Affections,  the  Occasional  or 
Miscellaneous,  and  lastly,  the  Religious,  which,  happily  for  him,  repre- 
sented the  last  phase  of  his  mind.  The  Historical  Poems,  it  will  be  seen,  I 
have  arranged  chronologically,  following  the  course  of  the  history  of  the 
Irish  Celts,  including  their  life  in  their  new  American  home. 

The  Biographical  Sketch  being  merely  intended  as  a key  to  the  poems,  1 
would  respectfully  request  the  reader  to  read  it  first,  then  the  Introduc- 
tion, which  will  prepare  the  way  for  the  poems  themselves. 

Some  errors  will  be  detected  by  critics  in  the  rhyme  of  certain  of  the 
poems,  none,  however,  in  the  rhythm , which,  in  all,  is  perfect.  I have 
done  what  I legitimately  could  to  correct  errors,  which  the  author  himself 
would  have  done  in  a general  revision,  had  he  lived  to  prepare  his  works 
for  publication.  Some  of  the  defects  in  rhyme  I could  not  venture  to 
correct  without  taking  unwarrantable  liberties  with  the  author's  thought. 

The  editing  of  these  scattered  remains  of  a genius  all  too  soon  extin 
guished  in  death,  was  truly  a labor  of  love  to  one  who  knew  the  lamented 
author  long  and  well,  and  from  an  intimate  knowledge  of  his  many  noble 
qualities  of  head  and  heart,  set  a high  value  on  his  friendship.  This 
collection  of  his  poems  is  as  complete  as  I could  make  it,  and  such  as  it  is, 
I commend  it  to  public  favor  as  a volume  of  genuine  poetry,  springing 
from  a heart  that  was  deeply  imbued  with  a love  of  the  beautiful,  the 

M.  A.  S. 


good,  the  heroic. 

New  York,  November  18, 1869. 


CONTENTS 


PAG* 

Biographical  Sketch  of  the  Author 16 

Introduction  to  the  Poems 41 

PATRIOTIC  POEMS: 

A Fragment 160 

A Harvest  Hymn 99 

Along  the  Line 161 

A Malediction 69 

A mere  Irishman’s  Lament 79 

Am  I Remember’d 159 

An  Apology  to  the  Harp 61 

An  International  Song 164 

An  Invitation  Westward 146 

Another  Year 143 

A Profession 157 

Arm  and  rise  ! 163 

A Salutation 138 

A Salutation  to  the  Free  Flag  of  America 131 

A Song  for  the  Sections 71 

A Yow  and  Prayer  123 

Change 89 

Death  of  the  Homeward  Bound 102 

Deeds  done  in  Days  of  Shame 84 

Dream  Journeys 140 

Freedom’s  Journey 160 

Freedom’s  Land 75 

Hail  to  the  Land 67 

Home  Sonnets — Address  to  Ireland 125 

Hope 90 

It  is  easy  to  Die 92 

Lord  Cl — gall’s  Dream 154 

Midsummer,  1851 151 

Native  Hills 141 

New-Year’s  Thoughts 87 

No  Surrender 83 

Ode  to  an  Emigrant  Ship 93 

•*-  rvn'  |"ni-‘H  ‘>r  K|.:l in  . 147 


1 


vi  CONTENTS. 

PAGH 

Oli ! blame  me  not 

128 

Prologue  to  St.  Patrick  at  Tara 

114 

Question  and  Answer 

129 

Rise  and  go 

155 

Rocks  and  Rivers 

86 

Salutation  to  the  Celts. ...  

135 

Song  of  the  Sikhs 

74 

Song  of  the  Surplus 

149 

Sonnet 

130 

Sonnet — Return 

139 

The  ancient  Race 

132 

The  Army  of  the  West 

73 

The  Celt’s  Consolation 

82 

The  Dawning  of  the  Day 

90 

The  deserted  Chapel 

The  Emigrant  at  Home 

64 

The  Exile’s  Devotion 

108 

The  Exile’s  Meditation 

105 

The  Exile’s  Request 

134 

The  Gathering  of  the  Nations 

85 

The  Heart’s  Resting-place 

The  Living  and  the  Dead 

101 

The  Parting  from  Ireland 

106 

The  Pilgrims  of  Liberty 

65 

The  Reaper’s  Song 

98 

The  Recusant 

81 

The  Saint’s  Farewell 

110 

The  Search  for  the  Gael — 

91 

The  Song  of  Labor 

112 

The  Three  Dreams 

104 

The  Three  Minstrels  

63 

Time’s  Teachings..  

142 

To  Duffy,  Free 

120 

To  Duffy  in  Prison 

116 

To  my  Wishing-cap 

Ill 

Try  again 

156 

Union  is  Strength 

136 

When  Fighting  was  the  Fashion 

95 

Wishes 

148 

HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS: 

A Ballad  of  Bannow 

271 

Address  to  Milesius 

171 

CONTENTS. 


Vll 


-t- 


PAGE 

After  the  Flight 312 

A Legend  of  Dunluce  Castle 265 

A Legend  of  St.  Patrick 192 

Amergin’s  Anthem  on  discovering  Innisfail 174 

An  Invocation 170 

A Prayer  for  Feargal  O’Gara 323 

Brother  Michael 317 

Bryan,  the  Tanist 213 

Carolan  the  Blind 329 

Cathal’s  Farewell  to  the  Rye 223 

Charity  and  Science 338 

Death  of  Art  M‘Murrough 267 

De  Courcy’s  Pilgrimage 258 

Epithalamium 256 

Execution  of  Archbishop  Plunkett 328 

Feagh  M‘Hugh 297 

Flan  Synan’s  Game  of  Chess 209 

How  St.  Kiernan  protected  Clonmacnoise 214 

In-felix  Felix 325 

Iona 219 

Iona  to  Erin  ! 221 

Ireland  of  the  Druids 181 

Kildare’s  Bard  on  Tournaments 283 

King  Brian’s  Ambition 246 

King  Brian’s  Answer 248 

King  Brian’s  Lament  for  his  Brother  Mahon 248 

King  Malachy  and  the  Poet  M‘Coisi 245 

Lady  Gormley 211 

Lament  of  the  Irish  Children  imprisoned  in  the  Tower 298 

Lay  of  the  last  Monk  of  Mucruss 306 

Lost,  lost  Armada 304 

Margaret  O’ Carroll 277 

Mileadh  Espagne 172 

Origin  of  the  Isle  of  Man 179 

Queen  Mary’s  Mercy 289 

Randall  McDonald 279 

Rory  Dali’s  Lamentation.  314 

Saint  Bees • 360 

Saint  Columbanus  in  Italy  to  Saint  Comgall  in  Ireland 231 

Shawn  Na  Gow’s  Guest 345 

Sir  Cahir  O’Dogherty’s  Message 809 

Song  of  ‘ 1 Moylan’s  Dragoons  ” 336 

Song  of  O’Donnell  in  Spain 308 


CONTENTS. 


— 

fiii 


PAOK 


Sonnet — to  Kilbarron  Castle 324 

St.  Brendan  and  the  Strife-sower 199 

St.  Cormac,  the  Navigator 229 

St.  Patrick’s  Death 198 

St.  Patrick’s  Dream 187 

St.  Patrick’s  first  Converts 189 

St.  Patrick’s  of  the  woods 351 

The  Ahbey  of  Lough  Key 357 

The  Banshee  and  the  Bride 285 

The  Battle  of  Ayachucho 352 

The  Battle  of  Clontarf 249 

The  Caoine  of  Donnell  More 228 

The  Captivity  of  St.  Patrick 185 

The  Celts 176 

The  Coming  of  St.  Patrick 184 

The  Coming  of  the  Danes 235 

The  Connaught  Chief’s  Farewell 326 

The  Croppies’  Grave 334 

The  Death  of  Donnell  More 225 

The  Death  of  King  Magnus  Barefoot 237 

The  Death  of  O’Carolan 333 

The  Famine  in  the  Land 339 

The  flying  Ships 342 

The  four  Masters 320 

The  Gobhan  Saers 178 

The  Harp  of  King  Brian 169 

The  haunted  Castle 355 

The  Irish  Homes  of  Illinois 348 

The  Irish  Wife 282 

The  Landing  of  the  Normans 255 

The  Last  O’Sullivan  Beare 315 

The  Legend  of  Croagh  Patrick 195 

The  Love  Charm 286 

The  outlawed  Earl 307 

The  Penitence  of  Don  Diego  Bias 262 

The  Pilgrimage  of  Sir  Ulgarg 260 

The  Poet’s  Prophecy 300 

The  Praise  of  Margaret  O’ Carroll  of  Offally 274 

The  Rapparees 310 

Thi  Saga  of  King  Olaf,  of  Norway,  and  his  Dog 240 

The  Shanty 349 

The  sinful  Scholar 252 

The  Summons  of  Ulster 301 


CONTENTS. 


-y 

is 


PAGE 

The  Testament  of  St.  Arbogast 233 

The  Voyage  of  Eman  Oge 201 

The  wild  Geese 332 

The  “Wisdom-sellers”  before  Charlemagne 205 

The  woful  Winter 343 

Three  Sonnets  for  St.  Patrick’s  Day 194 

To  the  River  Boyne 330 

'Twas  something  then  to  be  a Bard 284 

POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY: 

An  Eastern  Legend 373 

A Plea  for  Spain 407 

Caleb  and  Joshua 374 

Columbus 383 

Diephon 365 

Hannibal’s  Vision  of  the  Gods  of  Carthage 368 

Jacques  Cartier 387 

Jaeques  Cartier  and  the  Child 389 

Our  Ladye  of  the  Snow  !” 393 

Re-conquest  of  the  Spanish  Land 380 

Sebastian  Cabot  to  his  Lady 385 

The  Answer  of  Simonides 370 

The  Death  of  Hudson 398 

The  Jews  in  Babylon 372 

The  Launch  of  the  Griffin 404 

The  Maccabees 376 

The  Star  of  the  Magi  and  of  Bethlehem 378 

The  Virgin  Mary’s  Knight 381 

Verses  in  honor  of  Margaret  Bourgeoys 391 

POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS: 

A Death-song 419 

A Dream  of  Youth 445 

A Monody  on  the  Death  of  Gerald  Griffin 436 

An  Invitation  to  the  Country 429 

Cead  mille  failthe,  O’ Meagher! 435 

Consolation 439 

Edward  Whelan 465 

Eugene  O’ Curry 457 

Home  Thoughts 428 

I love  thee,  Mary  ! 425 

In  Memoriam 433 

In  Memoriam 441 


X 


CONTENTS. 


PAGS 

In  Memoriam 462 

Lanes  written  in  a Lady’s  Album 424 

Live  for  Love 420 

Mary’s  Heart 440 

Memento  Mori 426 

Memento  Mori 432 

Memories 427 

Requiem  iEternam 467 

St.  Kevin’s  Bed 416 

Sursum  Corda 455 

The  dead  Antiquary,  O’ Donovan 448 

The  Death-bed 430 

The  Exile 421 

The  Parting 413 

The  Priest  of  Perth 463 

Thoughts  of  Ireland 414 

To  a Friend  in  Australia 444 

To  Mary  in  Ireland 417 

To  Mary’s  Angel 423 

To  Mr.  Kennedy,  the  Scottish  Minstrel 461 

William  Smith  O’Brien 446 

Wishes 460 

Words  of  Welcome 443 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS: 

A Contrast 495 

Ad  Misericordiam 505 

An  Epicurean  Ditty 489 

A Plea  for  the  Poor 492 

A small  Catechism 532 

Autumn  and  Winter 531 

Contentment 501 

Dark  blue  Eyes 478 

Donna  Violetta 493 

False  Fear  of  the  World 488 

God  be  praised 485 

God  Bless  the  Brave  ! 514 

Grandma  Alice 506 

Graves  in  the  Forest 491 

Hallowe’en  in  Canada — 1863 510 

Icebergs 522 

Impromptu 523 

Independence 530 


CONTENTS. 


xi 


i 


PAGE 

Irish  Proverbs 480 

Lines,  written  on  the  eighty-second  Anniversary  of  the  birth  of 

Thomas  Moore 500 

Lines  written  on  the  Fly-leaf  of  a Book 493 

‘ ‘ Lough  Derg.  ’’ 482 

My  Round  Table 473 

Peace  hath  her  Victories 625 

Prima  Vista 533 

Rich  and  Poor 496 

Sunset  on  the  Corso  at  Rome 518 

Tasso’s  Tomb  at  Rome 520 

The  Charter  Song  of  the  Tom  Moore  Club 498 

The  farther  Shore 511 

The  Lady  Mo-Bride 529 

The  Lord  and  the  Peasant 479 

The  Man  of  the  North  Countrie 484 

The  Minstrel’s  Curse 527 

The  Mountain-laurel 477 

The  Old  Soldier  and  the  Student 516 

The  Penitent  Raven 508 

The  Romance  of  a Hand 475 

The  Sea  Captain 523 

The  Star  Venus 512 

The  Students 490 

The  Student’s  luckless  Love 476 

The  Sunless  Land 526 

The  Trip  over  the  Mountain 499 

Thomas  Moore  at  St.  Ann’s 513 

To  Miss  M.  S 508 

Woman’s  Praise 503 

Youth  and  Death 487 

HELIGIOUS  POEMS: 

A Christmas  Prelude 557 

A Prayer  for  the  Dead 565 

Christmas  Morn 560 

Eternity 539 

Hymn  to  Saint  Patrick 541 

I will  go  to  the  Altar  of  God 571 

Life,  a Mystery  to  Man 553 

Shrines  on  the  Shore 545 

Soldier  ! make  your  Sword  your  Cross  ! 567 

St.  Bridget  of  Kildare 544 


CONTENTS. 


xii 

PAG* 


Stella!  Stella! 570 

Sunday  Hymn  at  Sea 570 

The  Saints  of  Erin 540 

The  Celt’s  Prayer 542 

The  Prayer  to  St.  Brendan 543 

The  dying  Celt  to  his  American  Son 547 

The  Cross  in  the  West 548 

The  Hermit  of  Croagh  Patrick 549 

Winifred  of  Wales 551 

The  Christian  Brothers 552 

The  Arctic  Indian’s  Faith 556 

The  Midnight  Mass 561 

The  Rosary 563 

The  Three  Sisters 564 

The  first  Communion 568 

The  Pearl  of  great  Price 572 


JUVENILE  POEMS: 

Boyhood’s  Dreams 

Canticle  of  the  Irish  Christian 

Lines  addressed  to  Mr.  A.  M‘Evoy,  of  Boston,  one  of  the  Author’s 

first  Friends  in  America 

Lines  dedicated  to  the  Memory  of  a beloved  Mother  and  two  dear 


Sisters 577 

Lines  sacred  to  the  Memory  of  John  Banim 589 

Lines  to  the  Petrel 580 

Lines  written  on  the  Fly-leaf  of  a copy  of  “ The  Spirit  of  the  Na- 
tion   590 

Sea  Song 581 

Song  of  the  American  Repealers 586 

Song  supposed  to  be  sung  by  one  of  the  Seamen  during  a stormy 

Night 582 

To  Ireland 583 

To  Wexford  in  the  Distance 578 

Trees 587 

Notes 691 


577 

579 

585 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 
OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


1 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 


Thomas  D’Arcy  McGee,  whose  poems  are  now  for  the  first 
time  presented  in  a collective  form  to  the  public,  was  born 
at  Carlingford,  County  Louth,  Ireland,  on  the  13th  day  of 
April,  1825.  His  father,  Mr.  James  McGee,  then  in  the 
Coast  Guard  Service,  had  married  Miss  Dorcas  Catherine 
Morgan,  the  highly-educated  daughter  of  a Dublin  book- 
seller, who  had  been  imprisoned  and  financially  ruined  by 
his  participation  in  the  conspiracy  of  1798.*  Of  this 
union,  Thomas  D’Arcy  was  the  fifth  child  and  second  son. 
Born  and  nurtured  amid  the  grand  and  lovely  scenery  of 
the  Rosstrevor  coast,  his  early  childhood  fleeted  by  in  a 
region  of  wild,  romantic  beauty,  which  impressed  itself  for- 
evermore on  his  heart  and  mind,  and  tended  not  a little,  as 
we  may  well  suppose,  to  foster,  if  not  create,  that  poetic 
fancy  which  made  the  charm  of  his  life,  and  infused  itself 
into  all  he  wrote  and  all  he  said.  He  was  eight  years  old 
when  the  family  removed  to  the  historic  town  of  Wexford, 
where  the  elder  Mr.  McGee  had  received  a more  lucrative 
appointment. 

* “ Both  on  the  father  and  mother’s  side,”  says  a biographer  of  Mr.  McGee 
“ he  was  descended  from  families  remarkable  for  their  devotion  to  the  cause 
of  Ireland.  With  the  exception  of  his  father,  all  the  men  of  the  families  on 
both  sides  were  ‘ United  Irishmen.’  ” — See  “ Short  Sketch  of  the  Life  of  Hop 
J^l^L^Gee^MrLjL^LjO^C^larke^^U^^fontreahi^ 


16 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


Soon  after  tlieir  removal  to  Wexford,  the  McGee  family 
sustained  a heavy  blow  in  the  death  of  the  accomplished  and 
most  exemplary  wife  and  mother.  The  rare  worth  and  the 
varied  attainments  of  this  lady  may  be  estimated  by  the 
profound  respect,  the  more  than  filial  affection,  so  to  say. 
with  which  her  eminent  son  cherished  her  memory  all  the 
days  of  his  life.  Of  his  father  he  was  wont  to  speak  as  an 
honest,  upright,  religious  man  ; but  his  mother  he  loved  to 
describe  as  a woman  of  extraordinary  elevation  of  mind, 
an  enthusiastic  lover  of  her  country,  its  music,  its  legends, 
its  wealth  of  ancient  lore.  Herself  a good  musician  and  a 
fine  singer,  it  was  to  the  songs  of  her  ancient  race  she 
rocked  her  children’s  cradle,  and  from  her  dear  voice  her 
favorite  son,  the  subject  of  our  sketch,  drank  in  the  music — 
the  sweet  old  Gaelic  melody — that  rings  in  all  his  poetical 
compositions,  as  a lingering  echo  from  the  past.  His  pas- 
sionate and  inextinguishable  love  for  the  land  of  his  birth, 
her  story  and  her  song,  may  be  traced,  and  was  ever  traced 
by  himself,  to  the  same  source.  Even  the  strong  and  vigor- 
ous, yet  simple  religious  faith,  which  was  one  of  the  mother’s 
characteristics,  was  no  less  discernible  in  her  son — at  every 
stage  of  his  life  manifesting  itself  in  profound  respect  foi 
religion  and  its  ministers,  and  for  everything  that  men  should 
hold  sacred  here  below  ; while  the  fervent  piety  of  the  true 
Irish  mother  is  happily  found  reflected  in  the  truly  religious 
tone  of  all  his  latest  poems. 

The  loss  of  such  a mother,  it  is  needless  to  say,  was  keenly 
felt  by  such  a son  ; and  through  all  the  changeful  years  of 
his  after-life,  her  gentle  memory  shone  like  a star  through 
the  clouds  and  mists  that  never  fail  to  gather  round  the 
path  of  advancing  life. 

But  the  mother  slept  in  her  quiet  grave  in  the  old  Cister- 
cian Abbey,  and  years  rolled  over  the  head  of  our  young 
poet,  each  one  bringing  sorrow  and  change — bis  mighty 


t 


B TO 0 RAP UICA L SKETCH  OF  THE  A UTHOR.  17 

genius  developing  itself  year  by  year  without  other  aids  than 
a day-school  in  Wexford  afforded,  the  higher  advantages 
of  education  being  as  yet  beyond  the  reach  of  the  middle 
classes  in  Ireland,  unless  a religious  vocation  called  their 
sons  to  Maynooth  But  the  boyish  years  of  the  future 
statesman  and  historian  were  not  passed  in  mean  or  frivo- 
lous pursuits.  His  love  for  poetry  and  for  old-world  lore 
grew  with  his  growth,  and  by  the  age  of  seventeen  he  had 
read  all  that  had  come  within  his  reach  relating  to  the  his- 
tory of  his  own  and  other  lands.  He  had  read  of  Wash- 
ington, and  of  the  great  country  beyond  the  Atlantic  where 
Freedom  had  established  her  throne,  and  where  the  oppressed 
of  all  nations  found  a welcome,  a home,  and  equal  laws  for 
all.  He  knew  that  many  of  his  race  had  there  found  fame, 
and  wealth,  and  honor ; and  seeing  little  prospect  of  ad- 
vancement at  home,  he  emigrated  to  America,  with  one  of 
his  sisters.  He  was  little  over  seventeen  when,  after  a 
short  visit  to  his  aunt  in  Providence,  R.  I.  (the  only  sister 
of  his  much-loved  mother),  he  arrived  in  Boston,  just  at  the 
time  when  the  “ Repeal  movement  ” was  in  full  strength 
amongst  the  Irish  population  of  that  city,  warmly  aided  by 
some  of  the  prominent  public  men  of  America  of  that  day. 
It  was  in  June,  1842,  that  our  young  Irish  poet  arrived  in 
Boston.  When  the  4th  of  July  came  round,  the  roar  of 
artillery  and  the  gladsome  shouts  of  the  multitude,  the 
waving  of  flags,  and  the  general  jubilation  of  a people  whf 
had  freed  themselves,  fired  his  youthful  imagination.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  what  he  saw  that  day  was  but  the  fore- 
shadowing of  similar  scenes  in  his  own  beloved  land. 

Thomas  D’Arcy  McGee  addressed  the  people  that  day, 
and  the  eloquence  of  the  boy-orator  enchained  the  multi- 
tudes who  heard  him  then,  as  the  more  finished  speeches  of 
his  later  years  were  wont 

“ The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command,” 

“ 


18 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


A day  or  two  after,  our  young  exile  was  offered,  and 
accepted,  a situation  in  connection  with  the  Bouton  Pilot , of 
which  widely-circulated  Irish-American  journal  he  became 
chief  editor  some  two  years  later,  just  when  the  Native- 
American  excitement  was  at  its  height,  and  the  American 
people  were  about  to  witness  the  disgraceful  riots  in  Phila- 
delphia which  resulted  in  the  sacking  and  burning  of  two 
Catholic  churches.  It  was  a critical  period  in  the  history  of 
the  Irish  race  in  America  ; they  were  proscribed  and  perse- 
cuted on  American  soil,  and  were  once  again,  as  of  old  in 
their  own  land,  obliged  to  defend  their  lives,  their  property, 
their  churches.  Few  were  then  their  defenders  in  the  press 
of  America,  but  of  those  few  stood  foremost  in  the  van 
Thomas  D’Arcy  McGee,  a host  in  himself.  With  all  the 
might  of  his  precocious  genius,  and  all  the  fire  of  his  fervid 
eloquence,  he  advocated  the  cause  of  his  countrymen  and 
co-religionists,  and  so  scathing  were  his  fiery  denunciations 
of  the  Native  Americans,  as  the  hostile  party  were  styled, 
that  all  New  England  rang  with  their  unwelcome  echo. 
This  outburst  of  fanaticism  at  length  subsided  and  passed 
away,  but  the  popularity  which  the  young  Irish  editor  and 
orator  had  gained  during  the  struggle  continued  to  grow 
and  flourish.  The  Repeal  agitation  "was  then  at  its  height 
both  in  Ireland  and  America,  and  again  the  Boston  Pilot 
and  T.  D.  McGee  took  a leading  part.  By  his  speeches  at 
Repeal  meetings,  his  lectures  delivered  all  through  New 
England,  and  his  already  powerful  pen,  our  young  “ Wex- 
ford boy,’’  as  he  was  often  called,  rendered  so  good  service 
to  the  cause  he  loved,  that  his  fame  crossed  the  Atlantic 
and  reached  O’Connell  himself,  who,  at  some  of  the  public 
meetings  of  the  day,  referred  to  his  splendid  editorials  as 
“the  inspired  writings  of  a young  exiled  Irish  boy  in 
America.”  So  mightily  had  his  fame  increased,  that  he  was 
invited  by  the  proprietor  of  the  Dublin  Freeman's  Journal — - 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


19 


t 


then  as  now  one  of  the  leading  Irish  journals — to  become 
its  editor.  No  offer  could  be  more  acceptable  to  Mr.  McGee, 
as  none  could  have  been  more  flattering,  or  more  in  accord- 
ance with  his  heart’s  dearest  wish,  to  do  something  for  the 
advancement  of  his  native  land.  But  what  a change  in  his 
fortunes ! Three  years  before  he  had  left  his  home  by  the 
Slaney  side  to  better  his  fortune  in  the  New  World  : he  had 
left  Ireland  unnoticed  and  unknown  ; he  returned  radiant 
with  fame,  his  youthful  brow  already  crowned  with  the 
laurels  he  had  won  in  defence  of  his  people  at  home  and 
abroad,  called  to  aid  the  greatest  of  patriots  and  his  asso- 
ciates in  the  cause  of  Irish  freedom. 

So,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  our  poet-journalist  took  his  place 
in  the  front  rank  of  the  Irish  press.  But  the  Freeman  was 
too  moderate  in  its  tone,  too  cautious,  as  it  were,  for  the 
fervid  young  patriot  ; and  finding  that  he  was  not  at  liberty 
to  change  its  character  or  its  course,  he  gladly  accepted  the 
offer  of  his  friend  Charles  Gavin  Duffy  to  assist  him  in  edit- 
ing the  Nation , in  conjunction  with  Thomas  Davis,  John 
Mitchel,  and  Thomas  Devin  Reilly. 

In  such  hands  the  Nation  soon  became  the  great  organ  of 
the  National  party,  the  mouth-piece  of  all  the  fervent  aspira- 
tions of  what  was  called  “Young  Ireland.”  Perhaps  no 
journal  was  ever  published  in  any  country  with  such  a 
galaxy  of  genius  shining  on  its  pages.  Like  a magnet,  it 
drew  to  itself  men  and  women  of  all  their  race  the  most 
brilliantly  endowed  with  the  gifts  of  mind.  Their  names 
became  household  words — words  of  pride  and  power — 
amongst  the  Irish  people.  The  poetry  of  the  Nation , even 
more  than  its  prose,  was  read  and  quoted  everywhere,  and 
its  voice  stirred  the  people  like  a trumpet’s  sound.  The  im- 
mediate result  was  the  secession  of  the  War  party,  repre- 
sented by  the  Nation , from  the  ranks  of  the  National  or  Old 
Ireland  party,  so  well  and  wisely  led  by  the  <rreat  O’Connell, 


t 


20 


BIOGRAPHIC*^  *JUU1VH  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


who  had  done  much  for  his  country,  and  would  have  done 
more,  in  all  human  probability,  were  it  not  for  this  fatal 
secession  of  the  younger  and  more  ardent  spirits  who  had 
been  wont  to  follow  his  banner. 

But  the  end  came,  and  a sad  end  it  was.  The  great 
“Liberator”  died,  while  on  foreign  travel,  a broken-hearted 
man.  Famine  had  stricken  the  land  of  Erin,  and  her  peo- 
ple, made  desperate  by  despair,  were  judged  by  the  “ Young 
Irelanders”  ripe  for  rebellion.  Mr.  McGee,  who  was  secre- 
tary of  the  Committee  of  the  Confederation,  was  one  of 
those  deputed  by  his  party  to  rouse  the  people  to  action  ; 
and  after  the  delivery  of  a stirring  address  at  Koundwood, 
in  the  county  of  Wicklow,  he  was  arrested,  but  succeeded 
soon  after  in  obtaining  his  release.  Nothing  daunted  by 
this  first  mishap,  he  agreed  to  go  to  Scotland  for  the  pur- 
pose of  enlisting  the  active  sympathies  of  the  Irish  in  the 
manufacturing  towns,  and  obtaining  their  co-operation  in 
the  contemplated  insurrection.*  He  was  in  Scotland  when 
the  news  reached  him  that  the  “ rising  ” had  been  attempted 
in  Ireland,  and  had  signally  failed — that  some  of  the  leaders 
had  been  arrested,  and  a reward  offered  for  the  apprehen- 


* Amongst  other  accusations  brought  against  Mr.  McGee  by  his  bitter  and 
unscrupulous  enemies,  is  that  of  having  betrayed  his  trust,  or,  at  least,  sadly 
mismanaged  his  Scotch  mission — “ the  Dumbarton  affair,”  as  they  call  it. 
Happily,  we  have  on  record  the  public  testimony  of  Mr.  Dufly,  by  whom, 
amongst  others,  he  was  sent  on  that  mission,  that  he  had  acquitted  himself 
with  honor  and  fidelity  of  the  duties  it  imposed  upon  him.  These  are  his 
words,  well  known  indeed,  but  ever  fresh,  because  so  true : 

“To  forty  political  prisoners  in  Newgate,  when  the  world  seemed  shut  ou* 
to  me  forever,  I estimated  him”  (meaning  Mr.  McGee)  “ as  I do  to-day.  I said. 
* If  we  were  about  to  begin  our  work  anew,  I would  rather  have  his  help  than 
any  man’s  of  all  our  confederates.  I said  he  could  do  more  things  like  a master 
than  the  best  amongst  us  since  Thomas  Davis;  that  he  had  been  sent,  at  the 
last  hour,  on  a perilous  mission,  and  performed  it  not  only  with  unflinching 
courage,  but  with  a success  which  had  no  parallel  in  that  era;  and,  above  all, 
that  he  has  been  systematically  blackened  by  the  Jacobins  to  an  extent  that 
would  have  blackened  a saint  of  God.  Since  he  has  been  in  America,  I have 
watched  his  career,  and  one  thing  it  has  never  wanted— a fixed  devotion  to 


t 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


21 


J 

sion  of  himself,  and  others  who  had  effected  their  escape. 
These  were  sad  tidings  for  our  ardent  young  patriot — sadder 
all  the  more  for  that  he  had  married  less  than  a year  before, 
and  a fair  young  wife,  to  whom  he  was  tenderly  attached, 
anxiously  awaited  his  return  in  their  quiet,  happy  home,  in 
a pleasant  suburb  of  Dublin.  A few  short  months  before 
he  had  been  a gay  and  happy  bridegroom,  spending  the  first 
bright  days  of  married  life  with  his  young  bride  amid  the 
romantic  solitudes  of  Wicklow,  dreaming  proud  dreams  for 
Ireland,  and  fair  ones  for  himself  and  her  he  loved.  All 
that  was  past  now.  Bum  had  already  come  on  the  national 
cause,  and  death  or  exile  awaited  himself.  The  dreams  he 
had  dreamed  and  the  hopes  he  had  cherished  were  all 
flown,  it  might  be,  forever.  But  something  must  be  done, 
and  that  quickly.  He  succeeded  in  crossing  in  safety  the 
narrow  sea  between  Scotland  and  Ireland,  and  in  the  far 
North  found  a generous  friend  and  host  in  the  late  ever- 
lamented  Dr.  Maginn,  the  gifted  and  patriotic  Bishop  of 
Derry.  Protected  and  sheltered  by  that  great  and  good 
prelate,  Mr.  McGee  awaited  the  visit  of  his  wife,  whom  he 
had  contrived  to  make  acquainted  with  his  place  of  conceal- 
ment. He  could  not  and  would  not  leave  Ireland  without 
seeing  and  bidding  her  farewell.  Sad  indeed  was  their  part- 
ing, for  the  young  wife  was  soon  to  become  a mother,  and 
who  might  tell  if  she  were  ever  to  see  her  husband’s  face 
again  ? Yet  with  the  unselfishness  of  true  affection  she 
urged  him  to  hasten  his  departure  for  America,  and  he  once 
again  sailed,  in  the  disguise  of  a priest,  for  what  he  fondly 
and  proudly  called  the  Land  of  Freedom.  He  landed  in 
Philadelphia  on  the  10th  of  October,  in  that  memorable  year 
of  ’48,  and  on  the  26th  day  of  the  same  month  appeared  the 
first  number  of  his  New  York  Nation , the  advent  of  which 
was  hailed  with  enthusiasm  by  the  great  majority  of  the 
Irish  in  America.  The  prestige  of  the  Dublin  Nation , of 


22 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


which  Mr.  McGee  was  known  to  have  been  one  of  the 
editors,  the  eclat  he  had  before  gained  as  editor  of  the  Bos- 
ton Pilot , and,  lastly,  the  great  want  the  American  Irish  had 
of  a powerful  organ,  all  combined  to  make  the  first  issue  of 
the  New  York  Nation  an  event  most  anxiously  looked  for. 

As  far  as  ability  and  power  were  concerned,  the  Nation 
fully  realized  the  most  sanguine  expectations  of  Mr.  McGee’s 
friends,  and  it  took,  as  it  were  by  right,  the  place  of  the 
great  Irish  organ  of  America.  But  unfortunately  for  him- 
self and  the  prospects  of  his  paper,  Mr.  McGee — naturally 
feeling  sore  on  account  of  the  utter  and  most  ignoble  failure 
of  his  party  in  Ireland,  and  the  imprisonment  of  his  dearest 
friend,  Gavin  Duffy,  and  others  of  the  leaders — in  writing  on 
the  causes  of  the  revolutionary  collapse,  threw  the  blame  on 
the  priesthood  and  hierarchy  of  Ireland,  who  had,  he  said, 
used  their  boundless  influence  in  dissuading  the  people  from 
joining  the  insurrection.  As  might  be  expected,  the  illus- 
trious Bishop  Hughes,  then  happily  governing  the  diocese 
of  New  York,  took  up  the  defence  of  the  Irish  clergy,  and 
triumphantly  proved,  through  the  columns  of  the  press,  that 
in  acting  as  they  had  done,  they  saved  their  people  from 
utter  ruin  by  rushing  into  a rebellion  for  which  no  adequate 
preparation  had  been  made.  Mr.  McGee  stoutly  maintained 
his  own  opinion,  and  many  took  sides  with  him  ; but  all  the 
religious  sympathies  of  the  Irish  people,  and  their  profound 
reverence  for  their  clergy,  were  arrayed  against  him,  and  he 
found,  when  too  late,  that  he  had  lost  ground  considerably 
in  the  favor  of  the  best  portion  of  his  countrymen  in 
America.  To  do  him  justice,  his  own  truly  Irish  respect  for 
the  clerical  order  speedily  regained  its  paramount  place  in 
his  mind  and  heart,  and  he  not  only  desisted  very  soon  from 
writing  against  the  Bishop,  but  ever  after  deplored  this  con- 
troversy with  him  as  one  of  the  false  steps  of  his  life.  What 
few  men  so  greatly  endowed  would  have  done,  he  fre- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


23 


quently  expressed,  both  in  public  and  in  private,  his  un- 
qualified regret  that  he  had  so  far  given  way  to  the  irrita- 
tion consequent  on  the  soreness  of  defeat,  as  to  raise  his 
voice  or  wield  his  pen  against  a prelate  whose  greatness 
none  knew  better  than  he,  or  more  fully  acknowledged. 

But  the  New  York  Nation  never  recovered  the  effect  of 
this  unwise  controversy,  and,  yielding  to  the  wishes  of  his 
numerous  friends  in  Boston,  Mr.  McGee  removed,  with  his 
wife  and  an  infant  daughter,  to  that  city,  and  commenced,  in 
the  year  1850,  the  publication  of  the  American  Gelt.  During 
the  first  two  years  of  the  Celt's  existence,  it  was  characterized 
by  the  same,  or  nearly  the  same,  revolutionary  ardor  ; but 
there  came  a time  when  the  great  strong  mind  and  far- 
seeing  intellect  of  its  editor  began  to  soar  above  the  clouds 
of  passion  and  prejudice  into  the  regions  of  eternal  truth. 

The  cant  of  faction,  the  fiery  denunciations  that,  after  all, 
amounted  to  nothing,  he  began  to  see  in  their  true  colors ; 
and  with  his  whole  heart  he  then  and  ever  after  aspired 
to  elevate  the  Irish  people,  not  by  impracticable  Utopian  » 
schemes  of  revolution,  but  by  teaching  them  to  make  the 
best  of  the  hard  fate  that  made  them  the  subjects  of  a for- 
eign power  differing  from  them  in  race  and  in  religion  ; to 
cultivate  among  them  the  arts  of  peace,  and  to  raise  them- 
selves, by  the  ways  of  peaceful  industry  and  increasing  en- 
lightenment, to  the  level  even  of  the  more  prosperous  sister- 
island.  Who  will  say  that  he  was  less  a patriot,  less  a lover 
of  Ireland  after  than  before  this  remarkable  change  from 
out-and-out  radicalism  to  that  calm  conservatism  which  was 
the  result  of  no  selfish  motive,  but  simply  of  matured 
thought  and  the  sage  counsels  of  such  profound  Christian 
thinkers  as  the  late  most  eminent  Bishop  Fitzpatrick  of 
Boston?  As  this  change  in  Mr.  McGee’s  principles  has 
been,  and  still  is,  grossly  misrepresented  by  the  revolution- 
ary party,  whose  ranks  he  quitted  then  and  forever,  and  as 


24  BIO  QUA  PEICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  A UTHOli. 

many  even  of  those  who  most  admired  his  genius  and  his 
poetry  have  accepted  the  views  of  his  unscrupulous  enemies, 
I think  it  my  duty  to  dwell  at  more  length  on  this  particular 
point  than  the  limit  of  this  introductory  sketch  might  seem 
to  warrant.  In  justice  to  his  memory,  I will  leave  him  to 
explain  in  his  own  terse  and  vigorous  style  the  reasons,  or 
rather  the  chain  of  argument,  by  which  he  arrived  at  the 
new  set  of  principles  which  governed  his  whole  remaining 
life.  It  was  in  the  August  of  1852  that  he  addressed, 
through  the  columns  of  the  Celt,  a “Letter  to  a Friend”  on 
what  he  aptly  styled  “ the  recent  Conspiracy  against  the 
Peace  and  Existence  of  Christendom.”  This  friend,  we  have 
reason  to  think,  was  the  late  brilliantly-endowed  Thomas  F. 
Meagher.*  The  second  paragraph  of  this  remarkable  letter 
reads  as  follows  : 

“Let  me  beg  of  you,  in  the  sacred  name  of  God,  your 
Author  and  Eedeemer,  and  in  the  dear  name  of  Ireland,  that 
you  use  this  interval  of  exemption  from  a decided  course  to 
review  the  whole  field  of  European  politics,  and  to  bring  the 
proposals  of  the  most  conspicuous  organs  of  power  and  agi- 
tators of  change  in  our  time  to  the  only  test  of  a Christian — 
the  beam  and  scales  in  which  St.  John  saw  the  angels  weigh- 
ing men,  actions,  and  motives.  This  standard  of  right  and 
wrong,  a Protestant  Christian  might  say,  does  not  exist  in 
this  world ; but  a Catholic  knows  better.  You  are  a Cath- 
olic. For  you  there  is  an  exact  and  infallible  standard,  to 
which  nothing  is  too  high  and  nothing  too  low — which  will 
detect  a grain  wanting  in  a pennyweight,  or  a stone  missing 
from  a pyramid.  The  field  of  that  standard  is  Christendom 
— Christ’s  kingdom — that  is,  his  Church,  and  the  angels  of 

* Few  will  have  forgotten  poor  Meagher  saying  only  a little  before,  that 
even  if  the  altar  stood  in  the  way  of  Ireland’s  freedom,  it  must  be  overthrown. 
Happily  even  he  lived  to  see  his  fatal  error,  and  to  admit,  as  he  did  in  his  far 
Australian  exile,  that  if  ever  Ireland  is  to  be  liberated,  she  must  first  be 
regenerated  by  baptism  in  her  own  holy  wells. 


t 


t 


JiinanAFHICA  L SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


25 


the  standard  are  the  bishops  and  doctors  of  the  Church. 
Sir,  you  have  been  born  in  the  kingdom,  and  enlisted  as  a 
soldier  under  the  standard,  and  you  are  bound  to  bring  all 
that  concerns  the  one  to  be  weighed  and  measured  by  the 
other.” 

After  speaking  then  at  some  length  of  the  investigation  of 
the  principles  on  which  that  choice  ought  to  be  made,  the 
writer  goes  on  to  say  : 

“ Permit  me,  as  one  who  has  been  over  the  ground  of  this 
inquiry,  to  tell  you  what  discoveries  I made  upon  it.  This 
I will  do  as  candidly  and  plainly  as  if  I were  dictating  a 
last  will  and  testament,  for  in  this  case  all  plainness  is 
lemanded. 

“ I discovered,  at  the  very  outset  of  the  inquiry,  my  own 
gnorance.  This  I discovered  in  a way  which,  I trust  in 
God,  you  will  never  have  to  travel — by  controversy  and  bit- 
terness, and  sorrow  for  lost  time  and  wasted  opportunities. 
Had  we  studied  principles  in  Ireland  as  devoutly  as  we  did 
in  ideal  nationality,  I might  not  now  be  laboring  double 
tides  to  recover  a confidence  which  my  own  fault  forfeited. 
But  I will  say  it,  for  it  is  necessary  to  be  said,  that  in  Ire- 
land the  study  of  principles  is  at  the  lowest  ebb.  Our  liter- 
ature has  been  English — that  is,  Protestant ; our  politics 
have  been  French,  or  implicit  following  of  O’Connell ; and 
under  all  this  rubbish,  the  half-forgotten  Catechism  was  the 
only  « Christian  element  in  our  mental  Constitution.  Since 
Burke  died,  politics  ceased  to  be  a science  in  our  island 
and  in  England.  The  cruel  political  economy  of  Adam 
Smith  never  had  disciples  among  us  ; the  eloquence  of  Shiel 
is  not  bottomed  upon  any  principle  ; the  ipse  dixit  of  O’Con- 
nell could  be  no  substitute  to  ardent  and  awakened  intellect, 
for  the  satisfying  fullness  of  a Balmes  or  a Brownson 

“Having  discovered,  by  close  self-examination,  that  the 
^ reading  chiefly  of  modern  books,  English  and  French,  gave 


26  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 

very  superficial  and  false  views  of  political  science,  I cheer- 
fully said  to  myself,  ‘ My  friend,  you  are  on  the  wrong  track. 
You  think  you  know  something  of  human  affairs,  but  you 
do  not.  You  are  ignorant,  very  ignorant  of  the  primary 
principles  that  govern,  and  must  govern,  the  world.  You 
can  put  sentences  together,  but  what  does  that  avail  you, 
when  perhaps  those  sentences  are  but  the  husks  and  pods 
of  poisonous  seeds  ? Beware ! look  to  it ! You  have  a soul ! 
What  will  all  the  fame  of  talents  avail  you,  if  you  lose  that  V 
Thus  I reasoned  with  myself,  and  then,  setting  my  cherished 
opinions  before  me,  one  by  one,  I tried,  judged,  and  capitally 
executed  every  one,  save  and  except  those  which  I found  to 
be  compatible  with  the  following  doctrines  : 

“ I.  That  there  is  a Christendom. 

“ II.  That  this  Christendom  exists  by  and  for  the  Cath- 
olic Church. 

“ III.  That  there  is,  in  our  own  age,  one  of  the  most  dan- 
gerous and  general  conspiracies  against  Christendom  that 
the  world  has  yet  seen. 

“ IY.  That  this  conspiracy  is  aided,  abetted,  and  tolerated 
by  many  because  of  its  stolen  watchword — ‘ Liberty.5 

“ Y.  That  it  is  the  highest  duty  of  ‘ a Catholic  man 5 to  go 
over  cheerfully,  heartily,  and  at  once,  to  the  side  of  Chris- 
tendom— to  the  Catholic  side,  and  to  resist,  with  all  his 
might,  the  conspirators  who,  under  the  stolen  name  of 
‘Liberty,5  make  war  upon  all  Christian  institutions.55 

Such,  then,  were  the  motives  which  induced  the  subject 
of  this  memoir  to  go  over,  as  it  were,  from  one  camp  to  the 
other — from  the  ranks  of  irreligion  and  universal  revolution 
to  those  whose  standard  was  the  Cross — whose  motto  was 
and  is,  “ Peace  and  good  will  amongst  men’5 — whose  end  and 
aim  is  the  freedom  wherewith  God  maketh  free — not  the 
lawless  liberty  of  doing  evil.  To  this  set  of  principles  Mr. 
McGee  faithfully  adhered  to  the  hour  of  his  death,  and  they 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


27 


governed  his  whole  public  life,  and  made  him  the  conserva- 
tive statesman  he  was  in  his  more  mature  years. 

After  publishing  the  American  Celt  for  some  years  in  Bos- 
ton, where  he  obtained  a high  place  amongst  the  eminent 
literary  men  of  the  day,  Mr.  McGee  transferred  his  publica- 
tion office  to  Buffalo,  at  the  urgent  request  of  the  late  Bishop 
Timon,  but  was  ultimately  persuaded  by  his  many  friends  in 
New  York  to  remove  thither,  and  here  for  some  five  years 
he  held  the  first  position  in  the  Irish  - American  press. 
During  the  years  from  1852  to  1857,  the  American  Celt  was 
regarded  by  friend  and  foe  as  the  great  champion  and  advo- 
cate of  the  Irish  race  in  America,  and  was  considered  the 
best  authority  on  all  matters  affecting  Irish  interests.  But 
while  editing  the  Celt  with  unequalled  power  and  matchless 
skill,  Mr.  McGee  continued  to  instruct  and  delight  crowded 
audiences  in  the  various  cities  and  towns  with  his  lectures 
on  all  manner  of  subjects — very  many  of  them  delivered  for 
charitable  and  religious  objects.  His  lectures  on  “ The 
Catholic  History  of  America,”  “ The  Reformation  in  Ire- 
land,” “ The  Jesuits,”  etc.,  can  never  be  forgotten  by  those 
who  heard  them.  Yet  amid  all  his  arduous  and  toilsome 
avocations,  he  found  time  to  institute  and  inaugurate  various 
associations  and  movements  having  the  social  and  moral 
3levation  of  the  Irish  race  for  their  object ; and  it  may  truly 
be  said,  that  to  his  undying  love  of  his  own  race,  and  his 
yearning  aspirations  for  their  well-being,  they  owed  some  of 
the  most  valuable  suggestions  for  their  guidance  as  a people 
that  have  yet  been  made.  It  was  his  special  object  to  keep 
them  bound  together  by  the  memories  of  their  common 
past,  and  to  teach  them  that  manly  self-respect  that  would 
elevate  them  before  their  fellow- citizens,  and  keep  them 
from  political  degradation.  To  make  them  good  citizens  of 
this  their  adopted  country,  lovers  of  the  old  “cradle-land” 
of  their  race,  and  devoted  adherents  of  the  sacred  cause  of 


28 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


Catholicity — these  were  the  ends  and  aims  visible  on  every 
page  of  the  American  Celt.  But  unfortunately  for  the  pecu- 
niary prospects  of  its  editor,  the  Celt  took  sides  with  no 
political  party  here,  and  warned  the  Irish  population  not  to 
trust  implicitly  in  any.  The  consequence  was,  that  it  lost 
ground  with  “ the  politicians and  the  very  reason  that 
should  have  made  it  a power  in  the  land — its  steadfast  ad- 
herence to  principle,  its  lofty  disregard  of  party  interests  or 
party  intrigues — made  it  languish  for  want  of  support,  and 
become  a heavy  burden  on  the  over- taxed  mind  of  its  editor 
and  proprietor.  Yet  who  will  say  that  the  American  Celt 
was  not  more  honored  in  its  high,  unselfish  mission  than  it 
would  have  been  in  the  more  remunerative  sphere  of  party- 
politics  ? Who  will  say  that  its  teachings  died  with  it,  or 
that  the  self-devoting  labors  of  its  editor  have  left  no  fruit 
behind  them?  The  best  and  most  intelligent  of  the  Irish 
race  even  to-day  in  these  countries  are  proud  to  acknowl- 
edge their  debt  of  gratitude  to  the  American  Celt  and  “D’Arcy 
McGee.” 

Amongst  other  projects  for  the  advancement  of  his  own 
race,  Mr.  McGee  had  early  conceived,  and  consistently  ad- 
vocated in  the  Celt , that  of  colonizing — spreading  abroad  and 
taking  possession  of  the  land — making  homes  on  the  broad 
prairies  of  the  all-welcoming  West,  instead  of  herding  to- 
gether in  the  demoralizing  “ tenement-houses”  of  our  great 
cities.  To  promote  this  most  laudable  end,  Mr.  McGee 
inaugurated  what  was  called  “the  Buffalo  Convention” — 
namely,  a meeting  or  senate  of  one  hundred  Irish-American 
gentlemen,  both  lay  and  clerical,  held  in  the  border  city 
above  named,  as  being  easy  of  access  to  delegates  from  both 
sides  of  the  frontier  line.  In  this  Convention,  composed  of 
the  most  intelligent  and  distinguished  amongst  the  men  of 
their  race  in  the  several  localities  which  they  represented, 
Mr.  McGee  was  confessedly  the  ruling  spirit,  the  chief  or- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


29 


ganizer ; yet  his  characteristic  modesty  made  him  keep 
rather  in  the  background,  while  others  were  placed  in  the 
van,  and  made  the  apparent  leaders  of  the  movement.  This 
might  be  called  his  debut  in  that  senatorial  career  in  which 
he  subsequently  attained  so  great  distinction.  Well  had  it 
been  for  the  Irish  in  America  had  the  views  and  suggestions 
of  the  Buffalo  Convention  been  more  generally  adopted. 

That  Convention  was,  however,  an  epoch  in  Mr.  McGee’s 
life.  His  eminent  talents,  his  untiring  assiduity,  his  in- 
domitable perseverance,  were  so  strikingly  manifested  then, 
that  some  of  the  Canadian  delegates  became  impressed  with 
the  idea  of  inducing  him  to  take  up  his  abode  in  the 
Provinces,  where  his  name  and  fame  were  already  known  as 
one  of  the  great  Irishmen  of  the  day.  He  had  lectured  in 
the  Canadian  cities  during  the  preceding  years,  and  the 
spell  of  his  genius  and  the  might  of  his  wondrous  eloquence 
had,  as  usual,  enchained  those  who  heard  him.  He  had 
made  warm  friends  in  Montreal  and  other  cities,  and  they 
all  united  in  urging  him  to  take  up  his  abode  in  Montreal, 
where  the  want  of  a ruling  mind  such  as  his  was  sensibly 
felt  by  the  rapidly-increasing  Irish  population.  It  was  rep- 
resented to  him  that  he  had  not  met  in  the  United  States 
with  that  encouragement  or  that  degree  of  appreciation 
which  his  great  abilities  and  devotion  to  principle  deserved ; 
whereas  in  Canada  his  countrymen  stood  in  need  of  his 
services,  and  had  the  power  and  the  will  to  advance  his 
interests. 

After  some  negotiation  on  the  subject,  Mr.  McGee  at 
xength  consented  to  make  Canada  his  home,  sold  his 
interest  in  the  American  Gelt,  and  removed  with  his  family 
to  Montreal,  wdiere  he  at  once  commenced  the  publication 
of  a journal  called  The  New  Era.  This  paper  was  not  very 
successful,  owing  to  the  fact  that  its  editor  was  as  yet  but 
little  acquainted  with  Canadian  affairs,  and  was  obliged,  as 


30 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


it  were,  to  feel  his  way  before  he  ventured  to  take  his  stand 
amongst  the  publicists  of  the  Province.  But  the  success  or 
failure  of  the  New  Era  was  of  small  account,  as  it  soon  ap- 
peared. Before  the  end  of  his  first  year  in  Montreal,  Mr. 
McGee’s  friends  and  countrymen,  against  all  odds,  returned 
him  to  the  Canadian  Parliament,  as  one  of  the  three  mem- 
bers for  Montreal.  This  was  undoubtedly  a great  triumph, 
for  his  election  had  been  warmly  contested,  and  it  was  only 
the  united  action  and  the  honest  enthusiasm  of  his  own 
countrymen  and  co-religionists  that  carried  the  day. 

The  modesty  which,  as  we  have  said,  was  one  of  Mr. 
McGee’s  characteristics  as  a public  man,  made  him  keep 
rather  in  the  background  for  some  time  after  he  had  en- 
tered on  his  senatorial  duties.  His  position  in  the  House 
of  Assembly,  too,  was  not  what  he  could  have  wished,  and 
was,  in  fact,  somewhat  anomalous,  as  he  found  himself,  for 
the  time  being,  identified  with  what  was  called  the  Rouge 
party,  the  Radicals  of  Canada,  with  whom  he  had  little  or 
nothing  in  common.  But  even  though  laboring  under  this 
disadvantage,  and  that  other  of  being  still  comparatively  a 
stranger,  Mr.  McGee  failed  not  to  make  his  mark  in  the 
legislative  halls  of  his  new  country,  and  before  the  close  of 
his  first  session,  the  Irish  member  for  Montreal  was  recog- 
nized as  one  of  the  most  popular  men  in  Canada.  Many 
of  those  who  had  been  his  enemies,  and  the  enemies  of  his 
race,  were  already  disarmed  of  their  prejudices,  and  began 
to  perceive  that  an  Irish  Catholic  could  rise  to  any  level ; 
that,  after  all,  something  good  could  come  out  of  the  heart 
of  Celtic  Ireland.  Considering  the  fierce  opposition  which 
Mr.  McGee’s  first  nomination  and  subsequent  election  met 
from  the  English  and  Scotch  and  Protestant  Irish  electors 
of  Montreal,  and  the  cold,  indifferent,  and  merely  accidental 
support  of  his  fellow-Catholics,  the  French  Canadians,  to 
whom  his  name  was  entirely  unknown,  no  greater  triumph 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR . 


31 


of  genius  and  of  a noble  nature  has  been  seen  in  our  times 
than  his  second,  and  third,  and  fourth  elections  for  Mon- 
treal by  acclamation,  and  without  opposition.  This  “Irish 
adventurer,”  this  “stranger  from  abroad,”  while  elevating 
his  own  people,  and  defending  his  own  faith,  its  laws  and  its 
institutions,  as  it  never  had  been  defended  in  a Canadian 
Parliament,  while  proving  himself  the  great  Catholic  Irish- 
man of  Canada,  made  friends  for  himself  and  his  co-religion- 
ists even  amongst  those  who  had  been  most  prejudiced 
against  everything  Catholic  and  Irish,  and  stood  forth,  not 
by  any  assumption  of  his  own,  but  by  general  consent,  the 
rising  star  of  British  America,  the  life  and  light  of  the 
Canadian  Legislature,  already  distinguished  for  eminent 
men  and  able  statesmen.  Yet,  at  times,  his  early  connection 
with  the  revolutionary  party  was  made  the  subject  of  biting 
6arcasm  and  ungenerous  reproach  by  some  political  oppo- 
nent. On  one  of  these  occasions,  when  twitted  with  having 
been  a “ rebel  ” in  former  years,  he  replied  with  that  candor 
and  that  calm  sense  of  rectitude  that  distinguished  him  in 
his  parliamentary  career  : 

“ It  is  true,  I was  a rebel  in  Ireland  in  ’48.  I rebelled 
against  the  misgovernment  of  my  country  by  Russell  and 
his  school.  I rebelled  because  I saw  my  countrymen  starv- 
ing before  my  eyes,  while  my  country  had  her  trade  and 
commerce  stolen  from  her.  I rebelled  against  the  Church 
Establishment  in  Ireland ; and  there  is  not  a Liberal  man  in 
this  community  who  would  not  have  done  as  I did,  if  he 
were  placed  in  my  position,  and  followed  the  dictates  of 
humanity.” 

About  the  year  1865,  Mr.  McGee’s  countrymen  in  Mon- 
treal and  other  cities  presented  him  with  a substantial 
mark  of  their  esteem  and  admiration — viz.,  a handsome  resi- 
dence, suitably  furnished,  in  one  of  the  best  localities  in  the 
city  he  so  ably  represented. 


32 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR , 


In  1862  he  accepted  the  office  of  President  of  the  Execu- 
tive Council  (whence  his  title  of  Honorable ),  and  while 
discharging  the  duties  of  that  onerous  position,  he  likewise 
acted  for  a time  as  Provincial  Secretary,  Hon.  Mr.  Dorion, 
who  had  held  that  office,  having  resigned.  Who  could  be- 
lieve that  it  was  at  this  particular  time,  and  amid  all  the 
multifarious  avocations  of  his  double  office,  that  he  com- 
pleted his  “ History  of  Ireland,”  in  two  12mo.  volumes, 
confessedly  one  of  the  best,  if  not  the  very  best,  digest  ol 
Irish  history  yet  written  ? Yet  such  was  the  fact. 

In  1865,  Mr.  McGee  visited  his  native  land,  in  company 
with  some  friends,  and,  while  staying  with  his  father  in 
Wexford,  delivered  in  that  city  a speech  on  the  condition  of 
the  Irish  in  America,  which  gave  offence  to  his  countrymen 
in  the  United  States,  inasmuch  as  he  took  pains  to  show 
that  a larger  proportion  of  them  became  demoralized  and 
degraded  in  that  country  than  in  Canada.  It  was  either 
during  this  visit,  or  a previous  one  in  1855,  just  ten  years 
before,  that  he  caused  a tomb  to  be  erected  over  the  grave 
of  the  mother  he  had  loved  so  well.* 

In  1867,  Mr.  McGee  was  sent  to  Paris  by  the  Canadian 
Government  as  one  of  the  Commissioners  from  Canada  to 

* Speaking  of  this  touching  act  of  filial  affection,  the  Wexford  Independent 
of  that  date  remarked : 

“ Some  years  ago  a little  poem  was  copied  into  the  Nation  and  several  of 
our  contemporaries  from  an  American  paper ; it  was  addressed  ‘ To  my  Wish- 
ing-cap,’  and  bore  the  well-known  poetical  title  of  our  townsman,  Mr.  Thomas 
D’Arcy  McGee.  Among  the  other  wishes  expressed  was  the  following: 

‘ Wishing-cap,  Wishing-cap,  let  us  away 
To  walk  in  the  cloisters,  at  close  of  day, 

Once  trod  by  friars  of  orders  gray, 

In  Norman  Selskar’s  renown’d  abbaye, 

And  Carmen’s  ancient  town  ; 

For  I would  kneel  at  my  mother’s  grave, 

Where  the  plumy  churchyard  elms  wave, 

And  the  old  war-walls  look  down.’ 

(The  poet  lived  to  see  his  wish  fulfilled,  and,  on  his  late  visit  to  Wexford,  caused  * 
neat  tomb  to  be  placed  over  that  beloved  grave.” 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


33 


the  great  Exposition  held  during  that  year  in  the  French 
metropolis.  From  Paris  he  went  to  Rome  as  one  of  a 
deputation  from  the  Irish  inhabitants  of  Montreal  on  a 
question  concerning  the  affairs  of  St.  Patrick’s  congregation 
in  that  city.  During  his  visit  to  Paris,  Rome,  and  other 
cities  of  the  European  continent,  he  wrote  for  the  New  York 
Tablet  a series  of  very  interesting  letters,  entitled  “Irish 
Episodes  of  Foreign  Travel.”  In  London  he  met,  by  pre- 
vious appointment,  some  of  his  colleagues  in  the  Canadian 
Cabinet,  who  had  gone  to  England  to  lay  before  the  Imperial 
Government  the  plan  of  the  proposed  union  of  the  British 
Provinces.  In  the  important  deliberations  which  followed, 
Mr.  McGee  took  a leading  part,  as  he  had  a right  to  do,  for 
this  grand  project,  so  much  in  accordance  with  his  lofty 
genius,  was,  in  fact,  his  own,  and  had  been  for  years  the 
object  of  his  earnest  endeavors.  He  was  then  Minister  of 
Agriculture  and  Emigration,  which  office  he  continued  to 
hold  up  to  the  time  when,  in  the  summer  of  1867,  the  con- 
federation was  at  last  effected,  and  the  three  great  maritime 
Provinces  were  politically  united  with  the  Canadas,  under 
the  general  title  of  the  “Dominion  of  Canada.”  Mr.  McGee 
was  offered  a place  in  the  new  Cabinet,  but  with  a disin- 
terested patriotism  and  a high  sense  of  honor,  which  the 
country  failed  not  to  appreciate,  he  declined  accepting  office, 
in  order  to  make  way  in  the  Cabinet  for  Hon.  Mr.  Kenny,  of 
Nova  Scotia — like  himself,  an  Irishman  and  a Catholic. 

But  with  all  his  great  and  well-deserved  popularity,  and 
the  high  position  he  had  attained  amongst  the  statesmen  of 
the  Dominion,  Mr.  McGee  had  made  for  himself  bitter  ene- 
mies by  his  open  and  consistent  opposition  to  the  Fenian 
movement,  in  which  his  clear  head  and  far-seeing  mind 
saw  no  prospect  of  permanent  good  for  Ireland,  and  much 
that  was  likely  to  demoralize  and  de-catholicize  the  people 
of  that  island.  He  regarded  it  from  the  first  as  an  off-shoot 


r 


34 


BIOGRAl'IIlCAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


of  the  great  universal  scheme  of  revolution  which,  like  a 
net-work,  overspreads,  or  rather  underlies,  every  state  and 
kingdom  of  the  Old  World — that  very  “conspiracy”  against 
religion,  law,  and  order,  in  relation  to  which  he  had  warned, 
as  already  seen,  one  of  his  early  associates  in  the  “Young 
Ireland  ” movement  on  his  landing  in  America,  after  escap- 
ing from  penal  servitude  in  Australia.  But  it  was  in  regard 
to  Canada,  and  their  avowed  intention  of  invading  that 
country,  his  home  and  the  home  of  his  family,  where  he  had 
been  kindly  welcomed  and  raised  by  his  own  countrymen 
and  others,  to  honor  and  eminence,  that  Mr.  McGee  most 
severely  denounced  the  Fenians.  He  rightly  considered 
that  it  was  a grievous  w’  ong  to  invade  a peaceful  country 
like  Canada,  only  nominally  dependent  on  Great  Britain, 
and  where  so  many  thousands  of  Irishmen  were  living 
happily  and  contentedly  under  just  and  equitable  laws  of 
the  people’s  own  mahing.  And  it  is  quite  certain  that  the 
great  body  of  the  T/ish  in  every  part  of  Canada  reprobated 
these  projects  of  “ Fenian  ” invasion  as  strongly  as  did  Mr. 
McGee.  But  the  whole  vial  of  Fenian  wrath  was  poured  on 
his  devoted  head,  and  no  means  was  left  untried  to  damage 
his  character,  public  and  private.  The  vilest  calumnies 
were  set  afloat  concerning  him,  and  the  honest  sympathies 
of  the  Irish  people  of  Montreal  and  Canada  for  their  native 
land  were  worked  upon  by  artful  and  unprincipled  persons, 
who  represented  him  as  a traitor  to  Ireland  and  her  cause, 
and  even  to  the  Catholic  faith,  which  is  Ireland’s  best  inherit- 
ance. Influenced  more  than  they  ought  to  have  been  by 
these  mean  and  dastardly  underhand  proceedings  of  his 
enemies,  a portion  of  his  countrymen  in  Montreal,  chiefly, 
if  not  all,  of  the  lowest  classes,  were  induced  to  accept 
another  Irish  Catholic,  a prominent  member  of  the  Cana- 
dian bar,  as  their  candidate,  in  opposition  to  Mr.  McGee, 
and  a stormy  contest  followed,  in  which  the  latter  was  suo- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


35 


cessful,  and  on  the  6th  day  of  November,  1867,  took  his  seat 
as  member  for  Montreal  West  in  the  first  Parliament  of  the 
Dominion.  The  victory,  however,  cost  him  dear,  for  the  vile 
means  that  had  been  used  to  turn  the  Irish  of  Montreal 
against  him  for  electioneering  purposes  were  the  immediate 
causes  of  his  assassination  a few  months  later.  The  evil 
passions  of  the  basest  and  most  degraded  of  his  country- 
men had  been  excited  against  him,  and  he  was  thenceforth 
a doomed  man,  although  he  probably  knew  it  not. 

At  the  time  of  that  ill-starred  election,  Mr.  McGee  was 
but  recovering  from  illness,  and  the  stormy  scenes  inciden- 
tal to  so  fierce  a struggle,  with  the  grief  and  mortification 
of  seeing  some  of  his  own  countrymen  his  bitterest  oppo- 
nents, all  combined  to  produce  a reaction,  which  threw  him 
again  on  a bed  of  sickness.  During  many  tedious  weeks  of 
suffering,  and  the  necessary  seclusion  from  the  world  conse- 
quent thereon,  he  thought  much  on  subjects  affecting  his 
soul’s  welfare  ; he  reflected  on  the  ingratitude  of  men,  the 
emptiness  of  fame,  the  nothingness  of  earthly  things,  the 
grandeur  and  solidity  of  the  imperishable  goods  of  eternity. 
In  the  deep  silence  of  his  soul,  shut  in  from  the  great  tu- 
mult of  the  outer  world,  he  pondered  on  the  eternal  truths 
and  on  the  religious  traditions  of  his  race,  and  the  strong 
faith  that  his  Christian  mother  had  implanted  in  his  heart 
grew  and  flourished  until  it  brought  forth  flowers  of  piety 
that  would  have  shed  a glory  and  a beauty  on  the  altar  oi 
religion,  had  he  been  permitted  to  live  to  carry  out  his  ex- 
alted and  purified  ideas.  Strange  to  say,  with  all  his  brill- 
iant success  as  a public  man,  neither  politics  nor  public  life 
had  ever  been  his  choice  ; by  the  force  of  circumstances  he 
was  drifted  on  to  those  troubled  waters,  where  rest  and 
peace  are  things  unknown.  The  calm  pursuits  of  literature, 
the  study  of  that  old-time  lore  which,  even  in  boyhood,  he 
had  loved  so  well,  and  the  cultivation  of  that  poetic  genius 


36 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


which  had  so  early  developed  itself  in  his  wonderfully-gifted 
mind — these  were  his  favorite  occupations,  and  for  himself 
he  would  have  desired  none  other.  How  often,  when  writ- 
ing to  his  best-loved  friends,  has  he  spoken  of  some  bright 
season  of  calm  rest,  when,  far  from  the  bustle  of  public 
affairs,  he  should  be  at  liberty  to  devote  himself  to  literary 
pursuits.  What  plans  he  had  projected!  what  dreams 
dreamed  of  what  he  was  then  to  do  for  the  advancement 
of  Irish  and  Catholic  literature ! 

Yet  who  that  heard  him  in  debate,  even  in  the  last  months 
of  his  life,  during  that  last  session  of  Parliament,  could  have 
guessed  that  his  hopes  and  wishes  were  far  in  the  dim  re- 
treats of  quiet  life,  with  his  books  and  his  pen,  and  that 
harp  whose  chords  were  his  own  heart-strings ! On  the 
very  night  preceding  his  cruel  murder  he  delivered  one  of 
the  noblest  speeches  ever  heard  within  the  walls  of  a Cana- 
dian Parliament,  and  fully  equal  to  the  best  of  his  own. 
The  subject  was  the  cementing  of  the  lately-formed  Union 
of  the  Provinces  by  bonds  of  mutual  kindness  and  good-will. 
It  was  a glorious  speech,  they  said  who  heard  it ; but,  alas ! 
alas ! the  echoes  of  that  all-potent  voice  had  scarcely  died  on 
the  air,  when  the  great  orator,  the  preacher  of  peace,  the 
sagacious  statesman,  the  gifted  son  of  song,  the  loved  of 
many  hearts,  had  ceased  to  live  ! 

He  had  reached  the  door  of  his  temporary  home,  the  fair 
moon  of  April  shining  down  from  the  cold,  clear  depths  of 
heaven, — silence  reigned  around,  broken  only  by  the  distant 
roar  of  the  cataract,*  coming  softened  and  subdued  on  the 
still  air  of  night,  his  poet-soul  drinking  in  the  ethereal 
beauty  of  the  hour, — when  a lurking  assassin  stole  from  his 
place  of  concealment,  and,  coming  close  behind,  shot  him 
through  the  head,  causing  instantaneous  death.  A few 
minutes  later  and  all  Ottawa  was  in  commotion  over  “ the 


- 


* The  Chaudiere  Falls,  near  Ottawa  City. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


37 


► 


-r 


murder  of  Hon.  T.  D.  McGee,”  and  the  sad  news  was  flying 
on  the  telegraph’s  wings  to  the  quiet  home  in  Montreal 
where  the  wife  of  his  youth  and  their  two  fair  daughters 
were  wrapped  in  sleep,  dreaming,  it  might  be,  of  the  calm 
delights  of  the  coming  days  which  the  husband  and  father 
was  to  spend  with  his  family  ; for  it  was  the  Tuesday  morn- 
ing in  Holy  Week,  and  the  next  evening  he  was  to  have 
reached  home  for  the  Easter  recess.  Over  the  sorrow  ot 
that  household  we  cast  a veil ; it  was  too  sacred  for  the  pub- 
lic eye. 

Secret  and  unseen  by  mortal  eye  was  the  death  of  the 
great  Irish  - Canadian  ; grand  and  imposing,  and  of  regal 
pomp,  were  his  funeral  rites,  and  lofty  the  honors  that 
greeted  his  cold  remains.  His  obsequies  were  solemnized 
first  in  the  Cathedral  of  Ottawa;  then  in  St.  Patrick’s  Church 
and  in  the  Church  of  Notre  Dame,  in  Montreal ; and  again 
in  the  beautiful  Cathedral  of  Halifax,  N.  S.,  on  which  latter 
occasion  a noble  funeral  oration  was  delivered  by  his  true 
and  most  appreciative  friend,  Archbishop  Connolly.  And  the 
people  of  Canada  mourned  him  many  days,  and  still  do 
mourn  the  great  loss  they  sustained  in  his  premature  death. 
In  their  social  reunions,  in  their  national  festivals,  they  speak 
of  him,  whose  voice  was  wont  to  delight  all  hearts,  whose 
subtle  and  bright,  yet  gentle  humor  shed  light  on  all  around, 
whose  genial  nature  diffused  a spirit  of  brotherly  love  and 
the  best  of  good-fellowship  wherever  its  influence  reached.* 

* In  proof  of  this,  I may  mention  that  at  the  annual  celebration  of  “ Hallow- 
e’en ” by  the  St.  Andrew’s  Society  of  Montreal,  at  which  Mr.  McGee  was  wont 
to  speak,  and  where  it  is  customary  to  read  prize  poems  on  that  old  Scotch 
and  Irish  festival,  of  forty-six  poems  sent  in  competition  on  the  Hallowe’en 
following  his  death,  thirty-seven  contained  some  touching  allusion  to  that  sad 
event.  From  one  of  the  poems  to  which  prizes  were  awarded,  we  quote  the 
following  stanzas,  in  the  ancient  dialect  to  Scotia  dear : 

“ Ah ! wad  that  he  were  here  the  nicht, 

Whase  tongue  was  like  a faerie  lute ! 

But  vain  the  wish : McGee  ! thy  might 

^^^^^^^^^^Ide^lo^^death^h^voice^smute^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 


38 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR . 


His  assassination  took  place  on  the  morning  of  April  7th, 
and  on  the  St.  Patrick’s  Day  previous,  just  three  weeks 
before,  he  had  been  entertained  at  a public  banquet  in 
Ottawa  City.  His  speech  on  that  occasion  was  one  of  the 
noblest  efforts  of  his  marvellous  eloquence.  It  was  on  the 
general  interests  of  the  Irish  race,  with  the  present  condi- 
tion and  future  prospects  of  Irish  literature — shadowing 
forth,  in  no  indistinct  lines,  his  own  abiding  and  all-endur- 
ing love  of  his  race  and  country,  and  the  work  he  had 
marked  out  for  himself  in  the  after  years  for  the  service  of 
one  and  the  other.  He  alluded  to  certain  representations 
ne  had  made  while  in  London,  during  the  previous  year,  to 
Lord  Derby,  then  Premier  of  England,  with  regard  to  the 
misgovernment  of  Ireland,  and  the  necessity  of  satisfying 
the  just  demands  of  the  Irish  people,  remarking,  at  the  same 
time,  in  his  humorous  way,  that  “even  a silent  Irishman 
might  do  something  to  serve  his  country.”  Following  up 
the  same  train  of  thought,  he  wrote,  only  a few  days  before 
his  death,  that  memorable  letter  to  the  Earl  of  Mayo,  Chief 
Secretary  of  Ireland,  earnestly  recommending  that  some 
permanent  measures  should  be  taken  to  improve  the  condi- 
tion of  Ireland,  and  remove  the  disaffection  of  her  people  by 
a more  just  and  equitable  course  of  legislation  than  that 
hitherto  pursued.  The  funeral  vault  had  closed  on  the 
writer  of  that  remarkable  document — since  quoted  by  Mr 

He’s  gane,  the  noblest  o’  us  a’ — 

Aboon  a’  care  o’  warldly  fame ; 

An’  wha  sae  proud  as  he  to  ca’ 

Our  Canada  his  hame  ? 

‘ The  gentle  maple  weeps  an’  waves 
Aboon  our  patriot-statesman’s  heed ; 

But  if  we  prize  the  licht  he  gave, 

We’ll  bury  feuds  of  race  and  creed. 

For  this  he  wrocht,  for  this  he  died ; 

An’  for  the  luve  we  bear  his  name, 

Let’s  live  as  brithers,  side  by  side, 

in  l'  I '■  ^ < 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


39 


Grindstone  in  support  of  bis  just  and  statesman-like  views  in 
regard  to  the  government  of  Ireland — before  it  reached 
America,  after  publication  in  England.  “ A prophetic  voice 
from  the  dead  coming  from  beyond  the  Atlantic,”  the 
English  statesman  aptly  styled  that  letter  of  earnest  plead- 
ing for  Ireland.  At  the  very  time  of  his  death,  too,  Mr. 
McGee  was  engaged  writing,  for  the  Catholic  World  of  New 
York,  an  essay  on  “ Oliver  Plunket,  Archbishop  and  Martyr.” 
Thus,  it  may  truly  be  said  that  he  died,  as  he  had  lived, 
“ loving  and  serving  his  mistress,  Ikeland,  as  a true  knight.” 
His  last  writings  were  for  Ireland — his  last  words  for  the 
peace  and  unity  of  his  adopted  country,  the  New  Dominion 
of  Canada. 

The  following  touching  tribute  to  his  memory,  from  the 
pen  of  one  of  our  very  few  remaining  Irishmen  of  genius, 
will  be  read  with  interest  : 

“ D’Arcy  McGee !”  wrote  Henry  Giles  to  the  present 
writer,  soon  after  the  sad  death  of  their  common  friend — 
“ D’Arcy  McGee ! I knew  him  well,  and  loved  him  greatly. 
He  was  but  a boy  when  I first  made  his  acquaintance,  and 
even  then  he  was  engaged  in  writing  brilliant  articles  in  Mr. 
Donahoe’s  Pilot.  He  had,  besides,  published  some  of  his 
literary  efforts.  As  he  advanced  in  years,  so  he  did  in 

power Great  in  his  eloquence,  his  reputation  grew 

with  the  growth  of  that  country”  (meaning  Canada)  “ which 
his  energies  helped  to  increasing  force.  All  this  had  as  yet 
but  served  to  indicate  his  power,  to  put  forth  the  branches 
of  his  deep-lying  energy,  when  the  assassin  drew  near,  and, 
with  his  stealthy  step,  in  darkness,  crushed  the  growing  and 
advancing  strength.” 

But  he  is  dead,  “ the  noblest  Homan  of  us  all ;”  lost  to 
friends  and  country— lost  to  literature — lost  to  song. 

“ Far  away,”  says  one  of  his  biographers,  “ from  that  glo* 
i rious  but  unhappy  isle  where  he  dreamt  away  the  bright 


40 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


fleeting  hours  of  his  childhood — far  away  from  the  home  of 
his  dearest  hopes,  of  his  highest  aspirations — far  away  from 
the  green  churchyard  where  the  ashes  of  his  parents  rest  in 
the  friendly  embrace  of  the  land  of  their  birth — in  the  New 
World,  far  over  the  sea,  in  the  land  of  his  adoption,  high  up 
on  the  sunny  side  of  beautiful  ‘ Mount  Royal,’  which,  slop- 
ing towards  the  far-famed  St.  Lawrence,  laves  its  foot  in  the 
limpid  waters  of  the  majestic  river,  overlooking  the  fair  city 
of  Montreal,  where  for  years  his  voice  was  the  most  potent, 
his  smile  the  most  friendly,  his  influence  in  all  that  was  most 
noble,  patriotic,  and  good,  was  most  felt,  sleeps  the  greatest 
poet,  orator,  statesman,  historian,  the  best,  the  truest  friendf 
counsellor,  and  guide  of  the  Irish  race  in  America.  His 
grave  is  bedewed  by  a young  nation’s  tears  ; his  memory 
lives,  and  shall  live,  in  that  young  nation’s  heart  ; his  name 
and  fame  shall  cast  lustre  on  the  pages  of  her  history,  and 
his  life-labors  stand  forth  as  an  example  worthy  of  emula- 
tion to  future  millions.”  * 

* “ Short  Sketch  of  the  Life  of  the  Hon.  Thomas  D’Arcy  McGee,”  by  Henrj 
i O’C.  Clarke,  Q.  C.,  Montreal 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS. 


Of  all  the  poets  of  our  time,  Thomas  D’Arcy  McGee  was, 
in  many  ways,  the  most  remarkable.  Unaided  by  collegiate 
education,  thrown  entirely  on  his  own  resources — even  in 
boyhood  an  emigrant  to  the  New  World,  where  his  supreme 
genius  made  him  a brilliant  editor  and  an  effective  orator 
long  before  the  age  when  other  men  enter  on  the  stage  oi 
ordinary  life — a popular  lecturer — a writer  of  acknowledged 
power,  equal  to  the  best  of  our  time — a careful  and  reliable 
historian — an  essayist  of  grace  and  skill — a legislator — a 
ruler — a projector  of  mighty  plans  for  the  government  of 
nations — yet  a singer  of  sweet  songs,  interweaving  the  wear- 
ing, wasting  cares  of  daily  life,  and  the  lofty  conceptions  of 
the  statesman’s  mind,  with  the  glittering  thread  of  poesy, 
the  golden  fringe  of  life’s  dull  garment,  giving  brightness 
and  beauty  to  the  meanest  things,  the  dryest  pursuits,  the 
weariest  hours, — Poetry  was  his  solace  in  the  manifold 
troubles  of  his  life.  It  cheered  him  in  poverty  ; it  enlivened 
his  dreariest  hours  ; it  breathed  a charm  over  the  dry  details 
and  joyless  struggles  of  political  life  ; it  illumined  the  edito- 
rial pages  ; it  refreshed  his  overtaxed  mind  when  Nature 
called  for  repose  ; it  made  love  fonder  and  friendship  dearer  ; 
and  softened  grief,  and  brightened  joy,  and  made  Thomas 
D’Arcy  McGee  the  best-loved  friend,  the  most  genial  com- 


1 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS. 


42 

paniou,  the  most  hospitable  and  cordial  host,  the  best  enter- 
tainer our  modern  society  has  seen  in  America,  while  lend- 
ing to  his  speeches,  to  his  public  writings,  as  well  as  to  his 
private  correspondence,  the  ineffable  charm  that  poetry,  the 
offspring  of  mind  and  heart,  alone  can  give.* 

That  this  poetry  of  his  nature  was  expressed  in  noble  and 
most  melodious  verse,  we  have  very  high  literary  authority. 
Many  years  have  passed  away  since  Charles  Gavin  Duffy, 
himself  a poet  of  no  mean  order,  said  of  McGee’s  poetry,  and 
of  his  devotion  to  “ Irish  interests 

“Who  has  served  them  with  such  fascinating  genius? 


* Amongst  other  remarkable  proofs  of  the  charm  that  pervaded  even  the 
public  discourses  of  Mr.  McGee,  I will  cite  the  following  : In  1862,  he  was  in- 
vited to  assist  at  the  great  “ Popham  Celebration”  at  Portland,  Me.  On  that 
occasion  he  spoke  on  “Samuel  de  Champlain,”  and  a few  days  after  he  re- 
ceived from  Mrs.  Lydia  H.  Sigourney  the  following  graceful  tribute, — she 
afterwards  sent  him  a copy  of  her  poems  : 

“ Hartford,  Conn.,  U.  S.  A.,  October  1st,  1862. 

“Mrs.  Sigourney  was  delighted  with  the  perusal  of  the  address  of  Mr. 
McGee  at  the  celebration  of  the  155th  anniversary  of  the  settlement  of  Maine, 
as  reported  in  our  public  prints,  and  regretted  not  having  had  the  privilege  of 
listening  when  it  was  delivered. 

“ She  has  long  cherished  an  interest  in  the  character  and  exploits  of  Sieur 
de  Champlain,  and  felt  that  they  had  scarcely  won  due  appreciation.  Of  the 
accompanying  brief  poem,  which  owes  its  existence  to  the  eloquence  of  Mr. 
McGee,  she  requests  his  acceptance  as  a slight  acknowledgement  of  the 
pleasure  for  which  she  is  indebted. 

“ LE  SIEUR  DE  CHAMPLAIN. 

“ Onward  o’er  waters  which  no  keel  had  trod, 

No  plummet  sounded  in  their  depths  below, 

No  heaving  anchor  grappled  to  the  sod 
Where  flowers  of  Ocean  in  seclusion  glow. 

From  isle  to  isle,  from  coast  to  coast  he  press’d 
With  patient  zeal,  and  chivalry  sublime, 

Folding  o’er  Terra  Incognita’s  breast 
The  lillied  vassalage  of  Gallia’s  clime  ; 

Though  Henry  of  Navarre’s  profound  mistake 
Montcalm  must  expiate  and  France  regret, 

Yet  yonder  tranquil  and  heaven-mirror ’d  Lake, 

Like  diamond  in  a marge  of  emerald  set, 

Bears  on  its  freshening  wave  from  shore  to  shore 
The  baptism  of  his  name  forevermore.” 


t 


IN T HOD  L OTION  TO  TEjl , 'OEMS. 


43 


His  poetry  and  his  essay’s  touch  are  like  the  breath  of  spring, 
and  revive  the  buoyancy  and  chivalry  of  youth.  I plunge 
into  them  like  a refreshing  stream  of  ‘Irish  undefiled.’  What 
other  man  has  the  subtle  charm  to  invoke  our  past  history 
and  make  it  live  before  us  ? If  he  has  not  loved  his  mis- 
tress, * Ireland,’  with  the  fidelity  of  a true  knight,  I cannot 
name  any  one  who  has.” 

The  Dublin  Nation , of  May  20th,  1 857,  speaking  of  “ True 
Poetry,  and  how  it  has  been  appreciated,”  speaks  as  follows 
of  Mr.  McGee’s  poetry  : “ Perhaps,  however,  the  poetic  re- 
creations of  T.  D.  McGee,  taking  them  as  a whole,  are  the 
most  intensely  Irish  verses  which  have,  as  yet,  been  contri- 
buted to  our  literature.  No  one,  not  even  Davis,  seems  to 
have  infused  the  spirit  of  Irish  history  so  thoroughly  into 
his  mind  and  heart  as  McGee  ; nor  can  any  more  melancholy 
proof  of  the  decay  of  national  spirit  be  given  than  the  fact 
that  these  poems,  the  composition  of  which  has  been  a labor 
of  love  to  him — exile  as  he  is  from  the  Old  Green  Land — 
remain  uncollected.  We  might  search  in  vain,  even  through 
the  numberless  volumes  of  English  poems  and  lyrics,  for  any 
that  equal  in  their  passion,  fire,  and  beauty  his  verses  en- 
titled ‘The  War,’  ‘Sebastian  Cabot  to  his  Lady,’  ‘The 
Celt’s  Salutation,’  and  many  others.’’ 

Since  his  lamented  death,  Henry  Giles  wrote,  “ All  this” 
(meaning  his  outward  life,  his  visible  strength  and  power) 
“has  beneath  it  an  ever-abiding,  underlying  principle,  a 
well-spring  ever  fresh  and  ever  sweet  of  glorious  poetry, 
with  its  softest  melody,  or,  in  passion,  indignant  and  strong, 
with  its  wild  and  varied  vehemence.  How  varied  the  poems 
were  which  he  breathed  forth  upon  the  woes  and  wrongs  of 
Ireland ! How  noble  the  strains  in  which  he  celebrates 
that  beautiful  land  of  much  calamity  and  countless  wrongs !” 

And  the  London  Athenceum,  speaking  of  Canadian  poetry, 
said,  years  ago,  while  Mr.  McGee  was  still  amongst  the 


44 


INTRO  1)  l J "'WN  j. 


living  : “ They  have  one  true  poet  within  their  bor  lers — 
that  is,  Thomas  D’Arcy  McGee.  In  his  younger  days  the 
principle  of  rebellion  inspired  him  with  stately  verse  ; let  us 
hope  that  the  conservative  principles  of  his  more  mature 
years  will  yield  many  a noble  song  in  his  new  country.” 

It  has  also  been  said,  and  I think  with  truth,  that  McGee 
was,  even  more  than  Moore,  entitled  to  be  called  “ the  Bard 
of  Erin,”  for  that  his  genius  was  more  distinctively  Irish, 
and  his  inspiration  more  directly  and  more  exclusively  from 
Ireland  and  her  ancient  race.  His  poetry  bears  all  the  char- 
acteristics of  genuine  Irish  minstrelsy  ; it  is  redolent  with 
the  purest  Irish  feeling  ; the  passionate  love  of  country  and 
of  kin,  the  reverence  for  what  is  old  and  venerable,  the 
strong  religious  faith,  the  high  appreciation  of  the  beautiful 
and  the  good — these  underlie  all  his  poems  ; wdiile  over  all 
are  diffused  the  choicest  graces  of  fancy,  the  most  subtle 
humor,  the  most  delicate  beauty  of  thought  and  expression. 
Like  some  strain  from  the  bardic  ages  of  old,  comes  to  the 
ear  and  to  the  heart  one  of  McGee’s  ballads.  Whether  he 
sings  of  love  or  friendship,  of  faith  or  charity,  of  war  or 
peace,  or  chants  some  old-time  legend,  or  a grand  historic 
tale  of  other  days,  the  under-tones  are  still  the  same,  and 
the  chords  are  swept  with  a master’s  hand.  When  he  sings 
of 


The  green  grave  of  my  mother 
’Neath  Selskar’s  ruin’d  wall,” 


or  of  the  young  wife  of  his  love,  whom  he  was  forced  to  leave 
in  the  first  year  of  their  marriage,  now  sighing — 


“Sad  the  parting  scene  was,  Mary, 

By  the  yellow-flowing  Foyle,” 

now  reminding  her  of  the  calm  joys  of  their  bridal  days  in 
lovely  Wicklow — 

“ Dost  thou  remember  the  dark  lake,  dearest, 

Where  the  sun  never  shines  at  noon?” 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS. 


45 


and  passionately  cries— 

“ My  darling,  in  the  land  of  dreams,  of  wonder,  and  delight, 

I see  you,  and  sit  by  you,  and  woo  you  all  the  night; 

Under  trees  that  glow  like  diamonds  upon  my  aching  sight, 

You  are  walking  by  my  side  in  your  wedding  garments  white” — 

we  hear  his  voice  like  the  sighing  of  the  breeze  in  summer 
boughs,  and  we  think  of  the  forgotten  bards  of  the  long- 
past  ages,  who  left  us  “The  Last  Rose  of  Summer”  and 
“ Savourneen  Dheelish.”  Anon,  he  sings  of  battle,  as  was 
his  wont  in  the  fiery  days  of  youth,  and  his  voice  is  a trum- 
pet-call— 

“ Gather  together  the  nations ! arouse  and  arm  the  men  1” 

How  the  martial  spirit  of  the  Celts  of  old  rings  in  Cathal’s 
“ Farewell  to  the  Rye 

“ Farewell  sickle ! welcome  sword  l” 

in  the  “Harvest  Hymn/’  and  “The  Reaper’s  Song,”  and 
“The  Summons  of  Ulster,”  and  the  “Song  of  the  Sheiks !” 

We  read  these  warlike  lays,  and  the  “ Pilgrims  of  Liberty,” 
and  many  another  patriot  strain,  and  we  feel  our  souls  stirred 
within  us,  and  wre  marvel  that  the  calm,  meditative  mind  of 
the  statesman  we  knew  in  later  days  could  ever  have  con- 
ceived such  burning  thoughts. 

Again,  and  how  often  our  poet  sings  of  his  native  land,  her 
woes,  her  beauties,  the  passionate  love  wherewith  she  in- 
spired him  from  youth  up,  a love  that  no  time  or  space  could 
ever  cool,  ever  diminish ! As  a boy  leaving  Ireland,  he  sang 
to  home  and  country — to  “Carmen’s  ancient  town,”  “to 
Wexford  in  the  distance  in  exile,  he  chanted  sweetly  and 
mournfully  the  memories  of  his  own  land  and  his  yearnings 
to  behold  it  again.  His  “ Parting  from  Ireland”  is  an  agon- 
izing wail  of  sorrow  : 

“ Oh,  dread  Lord  of  heaven  and  earth ! hard  and  sad  it  is  to  go 
From  the  land  I loved  and  cherish’d  into  outward  gloom  and  woe ; 

Was  it  for  this,  Guardian  Angel ! when  to  manly  years  I came, 

Homeward,  as  a light,  you  led  me— light  that  now  is  turn’d  to  flame  ?” 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS. 


4G 

And  whoever  sang  with  fonder  pride,  or  in  more  melodious 
verse,  the  romantic  beauty  of  Ireland,  her  household  virtues, 
her  ever-abiding  faith  in  things  divine?  How  fondly  ho 
apostrophizes  his 

“ Ireland  of  the  Holy  Islands, 

Belted  ronnd  with  misty  highlands!” 

In  “ The  Deserted  Chapel”  we  have  a most  touching  and 
graphic  description  of  the  desolating  effects  of  emigration  in 
the  old  land  ; in  “The  Woful  Winter,”  a mournful  lament 
for  the  myriad  victims  of  famine  and  pestilence  in  the  dreary 
year  of  ’47 : 

“ They  are  flying,  flying,  like  northern  birds,  over  the  sea  for  fear; 

They  cannot  abide  in  their  own  green  land,  they  seek  a resting  here 
Oh ! wherefore  are  they  flying— is  it  from  the  front  of  war, 

Or  have  they  smelt  the  Asian  plague  the  winds  waft  from  afar?” 

And  again,  in  the  noble  poem  entitled  “Famine  in  the 
Land,” 

“ Death  reapeth  in  the  field  of  life,  and  we  cannot  count  the  corpses !” 

the  same  subject  is  pursued  with  sorrowful  interest.  It  was 
indeed  one  that  addressed  itself  to  the  tenderest  sympathies 
of  the  poet’s  heart,  and  we  find  it  touchingly  prominent  in 
several  of  the  poems  ; and  this  is  natural,  for  “ the  Ancient 
Race,”  the  “ Celtic  Race,”  was  one  of  his  favorite  themes  ; 
he  loved  more  than  all  to  sing  its  praise  ; he  loved  it,  he 
was  proud  of  it ; then  how  could  he  fail  to  feel  its  woes,  and 
the  dark  doom  that  made  it  subject  to  periodical  famine  and 
pestilence  ? Even  in  the  land  of  his  exile,  we  find  his 
“ Meditations”  interwoven  with  sad  reflections  on  the  hard 
lot  that  makes  so  many  of  his  countrymen  wanderers  on  the 
face  of  the  earth  : 


“ Alone  in  this  mighty  city,  queen  of  the  continent! 

I ponder  on  my  people’s  fate  in  grief  and  discontent; 

Alas  ! that  I have  lived  to  see  them  wiled  and  cast  away, 

And  driven  like  soulless  cattle  from  their  native  land  a prey!” 

Indeed,  love  for  his  own  “ island  race”  was  oue  of  our  poet’s 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS. 


47 


t 


strongest  and  most  abiding  instincts.  How  grandly  he 
sings  of  “ Ossian’s  Celts,”  of  the  warlike  Milesians  ! how  fra- 
ternal and  how  noble  his  “ Salutation  to  the  Celts !” — 

“ Hail  to  our  Celtic  brethren  wherever  they  may  be, 

In  the  far  woods  of  Oregon,  or  by  the  Atlantic  sea !” 

His  love  for  Ireland  inspired  Mr.  McGee  beyond  all 
doubt  with  some  of  the  very  best  and  sweetest  of  his  poems. 

It  was  so  a part  of  his  nature  that,  like  the  theme  _of  some 
noble  piece  of  music,  it  runs  through  all  his  poetry,  yielding 
ever  the  sweetest  notes,  charming  us,  while  we  read,  like 
the  matins  of  the  lark,  or  the  vesper-hymn  of  the  bird  of 
eve.  His  songs  of  Ireland  come  gushing  from  the  inner- 
most depths  of  his  heart,  warm,  and  fresh,  and  glowing, — 

“ 0 Pilgrim,  if  you  bring  me  from  the  far-off  lands  a sign, 

Let  it  be  some  token  still  of  the  Green  Old  Land  once  mine  ; 

A shell  from  the  shores  of  Ireland  would  be  dearer  far  to  me 
Than  all  the  wines  of  the  Rhine-land,  or  the  art  of  Italie.” 

His  “ Wishes,”  his  “ Memories,”  his  “ Heart’s  Resting-place,” 
all  echo  the  same  strain — 

“ Where’er  I turn’d,  some  emblem  still 
Roused  consciousness  upon  my  track ; 

Some  hill  was  like  an  Irish  hill, 

Some  wild-bird’s  whistle  call’d  me  back.” 

And  how  touching  is  the  apology  we  find  in  more  than  one 
of  the  poems  for  his  passionate  devotion  to  Ireland  and  her 
literature ! In  one  he  sings — 

“ Oh ! blame  me  not  if  I love  to  dwell 
On  Erin’s  early  glory ; 

Oh ! blame  me  not,  if  too  oft  I tell 
The  same  inspiring  story!” 

In  another  we  find  the  singularly  characteristic  lines— 

“ I’d  rather  turn  one  simple  verse 
True  to  the  Gaelic  ear, 

Than  classic  odes  I might  rehearse 
With  senates  list’ninr'  near.” 

— ^ 


48 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS . 


Now  this  is  precisely  what  he  did,  and  it  makes  the  chief 
^harm  of  his  poetry.  It  was  because  he,  more  than  any  poet 
of  our  time,  “ turn’d  ” his  verses  “ true  to  the  Gaelic  ear,” 
chat,  whether  grave  or  gay,  tender  or  pathetic,  or  martial, 
or  religious,  they  ever  reach  the  Gaelic  heart,  and  mirror  all 
its  many-hued  aspects. 

The  noblest  of  his  poems  are  undoubtedly  the  historical. 
Indeed,  it  was  one  of  the  dreams  of  his  life  to  complete,  in 
some  season  of  rest  (which  never  came !)  a ballad-history  of 
Ireland  : some  broken  links  of  that  golden  chain  will  delight 
many  a reader  of  this  volume,  as  they  have  delighted  thou- 
sands in  days  gone  by.  “ Amergin’s  Hymn  on  Seeing  Innis- 
fail,”  “ Milesius,  the  Spaniard,”  “ Ossian’s  Celts,”  “ Ireland 
of  the  Druids,”  “ The  Coming  of  St.  Patrick,”  and  other 
poems  on  the  life  and  death  of  that  apostle  ; “ The  Voyage 
of  Eman  Oge,”  “ The  Gobhan  Saer,”  “St.  Cormac,  the  Navi- 
gator,” “ St.  Brendan  and  the  Strife-Sower,”  “ St.  Columba 
rjO  his  Irish  Dove,”  “ St.  Columbanus  to  St.  Comgall,”  “ The 
Testament  of  St.  Arbogast,”  “ The  Pilgrimage  of  Sir  Ulgarg,” 
the  two  noble  poems  on  “ Margaret  O’Carroll,  of  Offaly;” 
“ Lady  Gormley,”  “ Elan  Synan’s  Game  of  Chess,”  “ Sir  John 
De  Courcy’s  Pilgrimage,”  “ Good  Friday,  1014,”  “ Shawn  na 
Gow’s  Guest,”  and  other  poems  on  King  Brian  Boromhe  ; 
the  fine,  but  unfinished  poem  on  “ The  Death  of  Donnell 
More,”  “ Cathal’s  Farewell  to  the  Rye,’’  “ The  Wisdom-Sel- 
lers before  Charlemagne,”  “ The  Lament  of  the  Irish  Children 
in  the  Tower,”  “ Earl  Desmond’s  Apology,”  “ Rory  Dali’s 
Lamentation,”  “ Feagh  McHugh,”  “ Sir  Cahir  O’Dogherty’s 
Message,”  “ The  Rapparees,”  “ The  Midnight  Mass,”  “ The 
Death  of  Art  McMurrogh,”  “ The  River  Boyne,”  “ The 
Execution  of  Archbishop  Plunket,”  “ The  Death  of  O’Caro- 
lan,”  the  poems  on  the  famine  and  pestilence  in  Ireland, 
and  on  the  emigration  and  the  Irish  in  America,  are  his- 
torical poems  of  the  highest  order.  So,  too,  are  “ The  Bat- 


IN  TROD  UGTION  TO  THE  POEMS. 


49 


tie  of  Ayachucho,”  “ Moylan’s  Dragoons,”  “ The  Sage  of 
lling  Olaf  Tregvysson,”  “ The  Death  of  King  Magnus,” 
“ The  Death  of  Hudson,”  the  two  musical  ballads  on  “ Jac- 
ques Cartier,”  “The  Launch  of  the  Griffin,”  “Sebastian 
Cabot  to  his  Lady,”  “Hannibal’s  Vision  of  the  Gods  of 
Carthage,”  “ Diephon,”  and  various  other  poems  on  general 
historical  subjects.  With  these  maybe  classed  “Iona,”  the 
wonderfully  fine  poems  on  “The  Four  Masters”  and  their 
chief,  “ Brother  Michael,”  the  “ Prayer  for  Farrell  O’Gara,” 
their  benefactor  and  employer,  and  “ Sursum  Corda  ” 
addressed  to  his  friend,  the  venerable  and  most  estimable 
Eugene  O’Curry. 

Another  remarkable  class  of  these  poems  is  the  obituary 
or  commemorative.  Of  these,  the  loftiest  and  grandest 
are  “The  Dead  Antiquary”  (John  O’Donovan),  “Eugene 
O’Curry,”  and  “ Richard  Dalton  Williams  ; very  fine  too, 
and  very  solemn,  is  the  “ Monody  on  the  Death  of  Gerald 
Griffin  whilst  “ William  Smith  O’Brien,”  “ John  Banim,” 
and  other  eminent  Irishmen,  are  duly  commemorated.  The 
lament  for  Banim  is  not  equal  to  any  of  the  others,  being  a 
mere  juvenile  composition,  written  while  Mr.  McGee  was 
editing  the  Boston  Pilot.  Some  of  the  most  graceful  and 
effective,  however,  of  his  poetical  efforts  were  his  tributes  to 
the  memory  of  private  friends  long  known  and  well  esteemed, 
but  of  no  historical  importance.  Chief  amongst  these  are 
“ The  Prayer  for  the  Soul  of  the  Priest  of  Perth,”  and  “ Re- 
quiem .ZEternam,”  which  last,  written  but  one  short  month 
before  his  own  sad  death,  applied  so  entirely  to  himself, 
that  it  almost  seemed  like  the  voice  of  presentiment,  and  as 
though  he,  like  Mozart,  were  inspired  to  chant  his  own 
requiem.  It  was  in  these  heart-piercing  strains  of  sorrowing 
affection,  as  well  as  in  the  numerous  poems  addressed  to 
his  wife,  and  some  few  to  his  chosen  friends,  that  the  win- 
ning  tenderness  of  our  poet’s  nature  made  itself  manifest, 


50 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS. 


+ 


In  this  connection  may  be  mentioned  the  exquisite  little 
poems  “ Consolation,”  “ Mary’s  Heart,”  “ God  be  Praised,” 
and  “ To  my  Wishing-Cap.”  Amongst  the  poems  expressive 
of  friendship,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  is  that  “ To  a Friend 
n Australia,”  in  which  are  found  these  exquisite  lines  : 

“ Old  friend ! the  years  wear  on,  and  many  cares 
And  many  sorrows  both  of  us  have  known ; 

Time  for  us  both  a quiet  couch  prepares — 

A couch  like  Jacob’s,  pillow’d  with  a stone.” 

To  the  manifoid  trials,  troubles,  and  heart-wearing  strug- 
gles of  his  life,  Mr.  McGee  gives  unwonted  expression  in 
the  musical  and  sorrowful  little  poem  entitled  “ Ad  Miseri- 
cordiam,”  written  during  his  darkest  days,  when  publishing 
the  American  Gelt  in  New  York.  No  one,  we  would  hope, 
can  read  without  emotion  the  concluding  lines  : 

“ Welcome,  thrice  welcome,  to  overtax'd  nature, 

The  darkness,  the  silence,  the  rest  of  the  grave  ; 

Oh ! dig  it  down  deeply,  kind  fellow-creature, 

I am  weary  of  living  the  life  of  a slave  !” 

It  is  quite  remarkable,  however,  that,  amongst  the  poetical 
remains  of  Thomas  D’Arcy  McGee,  the  religious  element,  the 
strong,  lively,  simple  faith  of  his  Celtic  fathers  is  supremely 
evident.  In  every  stage  of  his  life,  the  most  stirring,  the 
most  unfavorable  to  religious  thought  or  feeling,  we  find  his 
muse  devoted  to  the  Saints  of  God,  especially  those  of  his 
own  race  ; how  he  sang  of  “ St.  Patrick,”  “ St.  Brendan  of 
the  West,”  “ St.  Arbogast,”  “ St.  Kieran,”  “ St.  Columbanus,” 
“St.  Corngall,’’  “St.  Cormac,  the  Navigator,”  “St.  Bride,  of 
Kildare,”  and  “ St.  Columba,  of  the  Churches,”  this  volume 
will  bear  witness.  His  poem  on  “ Eternity”  contains,  within 
a short  space,  much  sublime  thought  and  the  fulness  of 
faith  ; yet  it  was  written  many  years  ago,  when  life  was 
young  and  warm,  and  its  cares  were  many  and  heavy  on  the 
poet’s  heart.  Even  “ The  Eosary  ” received  its  tribute  from 
his  pious  muse  in  those  busy  by-gone  years  ; indeed^jdHiis 


T 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS. 


t 

51 

life  long  Mr.  McGee  cherished  the  special  veneration  which 
his  mother  taught  him  in  early  infancy  for  the  blessed  Mother 
of  our  Lord.  In  his  latest  years,  when  the  legislative  halls 
of  his  adopted  country  were  wont  to  echo  with  his  matchless 
eloquence,  and  the  multitudinous  cares  of  statecraft  weighed 
upon  his  mind,  and  the  tumult  of  party  strife  jarred  harshly 
on  his  finely-tuned  ear  and  heart,  we  find  his  poetry  chiefly 
of  a religious  character.  It  was  then  that  he  sang  of 
“ Humility,”  of  “ First  Communion,’’  of  “ Sister  Margaret 
Bourgeois,’’  of  Montreal,  and  her  wonderful  life  of  sancti- 
fied labor  ; it  was  then  he  penned  these  deathless  lines — 

“ Mighty  our  Holy  Church’s  will 
To  guard  her  parting  souls  from  ill, 

Jealous  of  death,  she  guards  them  still — 

Miserere,  Domine  / 

“ The  dearest  friend  will  turn  away, 

And  leave  the  clay  to  keep  the  clay, 

Ever  and  ever  she  will  stay — 

Miserere,  Domine  /” 

Had  he  lived  longer,  this  religious  aspect  of  his  mind,  this 
fervent,  ever-living  faith  would  have  been  still  more  strikingly 
manifested.  Amongst  his  papers  was  found  a list  of  “ Topics” 
for  poems,  evidently  written  quite  recently,  all  of  them  of  a 
most  solemnly  religious  character.  These  were  the  “ Topics” 
written  in  pencil  in  his  own  fair  hand  : “ He  came  unto  His 
own,  and  His  own  received  Him  not,”  “ The  night  cometh 
in  which  no  man  can  work,”  “I  believe  in  the  Communion 
of  Saints,”  “ Ergo  expecto  resurrectionem  mortuorum”  “ It  is 
a holy  and  wholesome  thought  to  pray  for  the  dead.” 

The  solemn  significance  of  these  scriptural  texts,  selected 
as  the  subject  of  poems  probably  but  a few  weeks  or  a few 
days  before  his  untimely  and  most  melancholy  death,  will  be 
noted  with  interest.  Indeed,  we  find  in  several  of  the  poems 
expressions  that  read  like  the  voice  of  impending  doom  ; 
thus  in  the  Monody  on  the  Death  of  Gerald  Griffin  ; 


52 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEM 8. 


u So  have  bright  spirits  been  eclipsed  and  lost, 

Forever  dark,  if  by  Death’s  shadow  cross'd 

and  again — still  more  like  presentiment : 

“ Oh,  even  thus  Death  strikes  the  gifted,  then 
Come  the  worms — inquests — and  the  award  of  men!” 

The  beautiful  little  poems,  “ Stella ! Stella  /”  “ I will  go 
to  the  Altar  of  G-od,”  and  the  “ Sunday  Hymn  at  Sea,”  were 
written  during  Mr.  McGee’s  last  voyage  from  Europe,  in 
1867.  They  breathe  the  very  spirit  of  faith,  called  into 
poetical  expression  by  the  abiding  presence  of  the  great 
waters,  the  boundless  mirror  of  Creative  Power.  “The 
Christmas  Prelude,”  “A  Prayer  for  the  Dead,”  “The  Star 
of  the  Magi,”  “ An  Irish  Christmas,”  “ The  First  Commu- 
nion,” “Eternity,”  “The  Pearl  of  Great  Price,”  and  others, 
are  eminently  religious. 

Of  the  pathetic  ballads,  “The  Death  of  the  Homeward 
Bound,”  one  of  the  best  known  of  all  Mr.  McGee’s  ballads, 
will  be  read  with  most  pleasure.  It  is  wonderfully  beautiful. 
“The  Trip  over  the  Mountain  ” is  a capital  specimen  of  the 
Irish  popular  ballad,  showing  with  graphic  fidelity  the 
process  of  love-making  amongst  the  peasantry,  not  only  of 
Wexford,  but  of  all  the  Irish  counties. 

The  “ dramatic  sketch,”  as  he  called  it,  “ King  Dermid  ; 
or,  The  Normans  in  Ireland,”  although  not  so  finished  as  it 
would  have  been  had  he  written  it  some  years  later,  still 
gives  evidence  of  considerable  power,  and  shows  that  the 
author  might  have  shone  as  a dramatist  had  he  followed  up 
this  first  attempt.  Take  the  poems  for  all  in  all,  they  are, 
to  my  thinking,  the  most  truly  Irish  collection  in  our  day 
given  to  the  public.  They  are  intensely,  thoroughly  Irish, 
in  the  sense  of  genius,  of  national  idiosyncrasy — Irish  in 
thought,  in  feeling,  in  expression.  They  are  Irish  in  rever- 
ential love  for  what  is  old  and  venerable  — witness  the 
exquisite  poem  on  the  Premonstratensian  Abbey  of  Lough 


INTliOD  VCTION  TO  THE  POEMS.  53 

Key  : they  are  Irish  in  the  depth  and  simplicity  of  religious 
faith  ; they  are  Irish  in  passionate  devotion  to  native  land  ; 
they  are  Irish  in  the  warmth  and  sincerity  of  affection  they 
breathe,  whether  in  love  or  friendship  ; Irish  in  the  peculiar 
forms  of  expression,  rich  and  racy  of  Irish  idiom — hence 
most  “ true  to  the  Gaelic  ear;”  and  Irish,  too,  in  the  elo- 
quent flow  of  words,  adapting  itself  with  ease  to  the  musical 
intonation  of  the  sweetest  and  most  perfect  melody.  Even 
those  written  for  and  of  the  Irish  in  America  are  as  true  to 
Irish  thought  and  expression  as  any  written  in  and  for  Ire- 
land. Of  this  class,  the  singularly  graceful  poem,  “ An 
Invitation  Westward,”  is  a fine  example  ; so,  too,  is  “The 
Cross  in  the  West,”  “ St.  Patrick’s  in  the  Woods,”  “ The  Irish 
Homes  of  Illinois,”  “ Graves  in  the  Forest,”  and  various 
others.  “The  Army  of  the  West,”  “The  Free  Flag  of 
America,”  “ Hail  to  the  Land,”  and  some  others,  bear  grace- 
ful homage  to  the  country  where  he  had,  for  the  time,  sought 
a home,  the  greatness  of  which  none  better  than  he  appre- 
ciated. The  noble  verses  on  “ Prima  Fisla”  (NewfoundlandN 
and  “ Peace  hath  her  Victories” — the  latter  written  in  Paris 
apropos  to  the  great  Exposition  in  that  city — “St.  Patrick’s 
Dream,”  and  “Iona  to  Erin,”  are  amongst  the  last  of  his 
published  poems.  It  will  be  seen  that  some  of  the  poems 
are  unfinished,  such  as  “The  Death  of  Donnell  More”  (one 
of  the  best  of  his  historical  poems),  “ The  Banshee  and  the 
Bride,”  “ The  Four  Students,”  and  “The  Sinful  Scholar.”  The 
latter,  a truly  charming  production  even  in  its  fragmentary 
state,  he  seems  to  have  intended  for  larger  proportions  ; its 
great  intrinsic  beauty  induced  the  editress  to  collect  and 
arrange  all  she  could  find  of  it  with  special  care.* 

* “Another  poem,  called  “The  Emigrants,”  on  which  he  was  engaged, 
found  in  so  fragmentary  a state,  that  I have  not  attempted  to  connect  the 
scattered  links.  The  author  appears  to  have  intended  it  for  a poem  of  some 
length,  to  form  a volume  in  itself ; the  dedication  which  he  had  written  for  it 
will  he  found  in  this  collection.  Many  years  ago,  Mr.  McGee  had,  I see, 


54 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS. 


One  couplet  of  this  poem  is  strikingly  characteristic  of  the 
author’s  peculiar  delicacy  of  thought  and  expression  : 

“ The  lone  lake,  like  a lady,  grieves, 

Saddest  in  the  long  autumn  eves .” 

To  ordinary  readers  nothing  can  be  more  simple  than  these 
two  lines,  but  to  the  cultivated  poetical  taste  they  will  pre- 
sent a graceful  thought,  most  happily  rendered  in  musical 
words.  Some  other  such  exquisite  snatches  of  song  the 
editress  found  here  and  there  on  scraps  of  paper,  without 
any  apparent  connection — broken  links  of  thought,  or  rather 
gushes  of  song  welling  forth  from  the  fount  of  genius.  Here 
is  one  of  these  : 

“Spell-bound  or  asleep,  I was  wand’ring  all  alone 
Where,  beneath  monastic  rocks  old  and  gray, 

The  deep  sea  beats  its  breast  with  many  a sigh  app  moan 
For  its  stormy  frantic  passions,  or  the  ships  T.  away.*’ 

Another  was  as  follows  : 

“ A moon  that  sheds  a needless  light 
On  soulless  streets  in  the  far-gone  night.” 

On  another  scrap  was  found  this  stanza,  which  the  author 
evidently  meant  for  the  beginning  of  a poem  to  be  named 
“ The  War  of  the  Holy  Oroes 

“ Art  thou  brave,  and  loveat  glory,  then  rise  and  follow  me, 

And  thou  shalt  have  ir  ? captain  the  Lord  of  land  and  sea ; 

Where  the  mighty  ir*rn  of  ages  left  foot-prints  stamp’d  in  gore, 

We  will  bear  the  p'^red  banner  that  our  fathers  bore  of  yore.” 

This  poem,  to  judge  from  its  opening  lines,  would  have  been 
one  of  great  vigor  and  of  stately  measure,  conceived  in  that 
religious  spirit  which  marked  exclusively  the  closing  period 
of  our  poet’s  life.  The  following  stanza  is  of  strange,  sweet 

mapped  out  the  plan  of  a grand  epic  on  the  Jewish  exodus,  which  was  to 
have  extended  over  twelve  books.  How  thoroughly  he  mastered  every  sub- 
ject on  which  he  wrote  may  be  judged  from  the  following  note  appended  to 
the  plan  of  this  poem : 

“ Read  fr  Ptodus,  ‘ St.  Jerome  and  the  Fathers,’  * Divine  Legation,’  His- 
tories ot  , Arabia,  the  Jews,  etc.,  Natural  History,  Josephus,  and  the 

Talmud 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS. 


I. 


55 

melody ; would  that  the  poem  so  commenced  had  been 
ended ! — 

“ Oft  through  the  gloaming, 

Like  shadows  coming, 

Around  me  roaming, 

In  scenes  afar — 

Than  the  present  nearer 
Come  the  old  days  dearer, 

Beaming  brighter,  clearer 

Than  the  evening  star.” 

The  first  lines  of  a historical  poem  called  “ King  Nial’s  Expe- 
dition to  Armoria”  will  give  an  idea  of  what  it  would  have 
been  if  completed,  as  it  may  have  been,  since  a poem  of  that 
name  was  found  on  one  of  Mr.  McGee’s  lists  of  his  poems  : 

“ King  Nial  hath  gone  with  his  chieftains  all 
For  a royal  raid  into  Armoric  Gaul ; 

Right  well  do  the  island-warriors  know 
That  the  Roman  now  is  a yielding  foe — 

Though,  truth  to  tell,  in  its  days  of  pride, 

They  smote  it  often,  south  of  Clyde ; 

Yet  much  it  rejoices  the  heart  of  the  West 
To  see  the  brave  bird  flying  back  to  its  nest.” 


Other  broken  snatches  of  glorious  song  I have  embodied 
in  the  poems,  where  there  were  even  two  consecutive  verses. 
One  of  these  commences  thus — “ I would  not  die  with  my 
work  undone  another,  “A  happy  bird  that  hung  on  high.” 
These  detached  verses  I commend  to  the  reader’s  special  at- 
tention, for  they  are  indeed  of  touching  significance,  when 
viewed  in  connection  with  the  author’s  chequered  life  and 
sad,  sad  death. 

“ I dream’d  a dream  when  the  woods  were  green, 

And  my  April  heart  made  an  April  scene, 

In  the  far,  far  distant  land, 

That  even  I might  something  do 

That  would  keep  my  memory  for  the  true, 

And  my  name  from  the  spoiler’s  hand !” 

That  even  he  might  something  do  ! — he  who  devoted  all  the 
years  of  life,  from  boyhood  to  the  grave,  to  the  hardest 
brain-toil  for  country,  for  literature,  for  religion ! — he  who 


56 


INTRODUCTION  TO  T11E  POEMS. 


delivered  over  eleven  hundred  lectures  on  every  subject  that 
could  elevate  and  instruct  the  people ! — he  who  wrote  many 
books  of  rare  value,  and  edited  some  fifteen  volumes  of  news- 
papers ! — he  whose  poetry,  like  his  eloquence,  has  thrilled 
the  hearts  of  tens  of  thousands ! Ah  ! if  he  did  not  do  work 
enough  “ to  keep  his  name  from  the  spoiler’s  hand,”  then  no 
man  or  woman  of  our  generation  has  a claim  to  lasting  re- 
membrance. 

As  one  of  those  who  knew  him  best,  and  all  he  had  done 
and  meant  to  do  for  the  real  interests  of  society,  especially 
those  of  his  own  race,  which  is  also  hers,  and  as  one  of  his 
humble  fellow-laborers  in  the  field  of  Irish  and  Catholic  lit- 
erature, the  editress  has  done  what  in  her  power  lay  to 
“keep  his  memory  for  the  true”  and  his  “name  from  the 
spoiler’s  hand.”  The  following  beautiful  poem  from  the  pen 
of  “ Thomasine,”  one  of  the  sweetest  singers  of  the  Dublin 
Nation  in  its  palmiest  days,  appeared  so  late  as  1860  in  the 
columns  of  that  paper.  It  is  a response  to  Mr.  McGee’s 
heart-warm  stanzas,  “ Am  I remember’d  in  Erin  ?” 

THE  EXILE’S  QUESTION,  “AM  I REMEMBER’D?” 

i. 

Well  have  the  poets  imaged  forth 
The  fear-cross’d  hope  of  lovers  true — 

A needle  turning  towards  the  north, 

Constant,  yet  ever  trembling  too  ; 

And  love  the  purest  soonest  feels 
This  thrilling  doubt  arise, 

As  homeward  memory  sadly  steals 
From  exile’s  distant  skies. 

Thou  art  remember’d ! 

n. 

But  doubt  like  this  doth  grievous  wrong 
To  Her  round  whom  thy  heart-strings  twine  ? 

And,  Brother  of  the  sweet-voiced  Song  ! 

Never  such  fervent  love  as  thine 
Did  Erie’s  grateful  nature  leave 
Unnoticed  or  forgot ; 

Still  for  thy  absence  doth  she  grieve, 

Still  mourn  thy  exiled  lot. 

Thou  art  remember’d ! 

1 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS. 


57 


hi. 

Nay,  and  though  long  the  glorious  roll 
Of  gifted  sons  who  loved  her  well. 

Much  were  that  tender  mother’s  dole, 

If  one  forgotten  fell. 

E’en  as  the  Church  holds  record  proud 
Of  every  sainted  name, 

She  counts  for  each  in  that  bright  crowd 
A son’s  especial  claim — 

Thou  art  remember’d ! 

IV. 

She  sends  this  greeting  fond  by  me, 

To  bid  thy  heart  rejoice ; 

Eager  from  lands  beyond  the  sea, 

She  listens  for  thy  voice. 

By  many  a hearth  her  daughters  sing 
Thy  strains  of  Celtic  lore, 

While  round  their  knees  the  children  cling 
To  learn  the  deeds  of  yore — 

And  thou’rt  remember’d ! 


v. 

Oft,  too,  when  themes  of  import  grave 
Call  men  to  council  high, 

Some  voice  recalls  thy  lessons  brave, 
Faithful  to  live  or  die ; 

And  constant  still— believe  it,  friend ! — 
Before  God’s  holy  shrine, 

Few  names  with  her  petitions  blend 
More  warmly  loved  than  thine — 

Thou’rt  well  remember’d ! 


To  this  we  append,  selected  from  scores  of  poems  written 
in  America  on  Mr.  McGee’s  death,  the  following  musical  and 
eloquent  tribute  to  his  memory  from  the  pen  of  an  accom- 
plished Catholic  priest  of  Pennsylvania  : 


“ Dark  is  the  house  of  our  fathers,  0 brother, 

Fast  fall  the  tears  of  its  inmates  for  thee — 
Grief-stricken  man  his  emotions  may  smother, 

But  loud  is  the  wail  of  the  wife  and  the  mother, 
Loved  D’Arcy  Mc-Gee ! 

“ Sweetly  the  Muses  thy  loss  are  bewailing, 

Sighing  in  chorus  the  sad  dirge — ah  me ! 

Life’s  golden  sunset  in  darkness  is  paling — 

Death  thy  bright  name  with  his  shadows  is  veiling, 
Lost  D’Arcy  McGee  ! 


58 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS. 


“Lo!  the  great  dead  of  the  long-buried  ages, 

Thronging  innumerous,  moan  over  thee — 

Spirits  of  heroes,  of  saints,  and  of  sages, 

Glowing  with  life  in  thy  bright-pictured  pages, 

0 gifted  McGee ! 

“ Thousands,  the  wide  world  o’er,  who  with  gladness, 
Spell-bound,  enraptured,  erst  listen’d  to  thee, 

Silver-tongued  Orator!  now,  in  deep  sadness, 

Horror-struck,  gaze  on  the  dark  deed  of  madness, 

0 martyr'd  McGee ! 

“ Poet,  Historian,  the  Forum’s  bright  glory — 

Light  lie  the  sod,  noble  D’Arcy ! on  thee  ; 

Blest  be  thy  name  till  the  ages  are  hoary — 

Honor’d,  oft  utter’d  in  pray’r,  song,  and  story, 

0 deathless  McGee !” 

With  these  echoes  of  his  fame  from  either  side  the  Atlan- 
tic, we  close  our  introduction  to  the  poems  of  Thomas 
D’Arcy  McGee — poems  which  will,  we  think,  justify  me  in 
saying  that  he  himself,  more  than  any  of  his  race,  struck 
“ the  harp  of  King  Brian,”  and  breathed  over  its  strings  the 
Celtic  spirit  of  Ossian,  whom  he  once  addressed  in  this  pro- 
phetic strain  : 

“ Oh,  inspired  giant!  shall  we  e’er  behold 
In  our  own  time 

One  fit  to  speak  your  spirit  on  the  wold, 

Or  seize  your  rhyme  ? 

One  pupil  of  the  past,  as  mighty  soul’d 
As  in  the  prime 

Were  the  fond,  fair,  and  beautiful,  and  bold— 

They,  of  your  song  sublime!” 

If  Thomas  D’Arcy  McGee  was  not  the  one  “ fit  to  speak 
that  spirit  on  the  wold” — if  he  was  not  the  “pupil  of  the 
past,”  the  “ mighty-soul’d,”  representing  in  our  new  age  the 
great  father  of  Celtic  song — then  is  there  none  such  among 
living  men. 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


t 


AN  APOLOGY  TO  THE  HARP. 

I. 

Haup  of  the  land  I love ! forgive  this  hand 
That  reverently  lifts  thee  from  the  dust, 

And  scans  thy  strings  with  filial  awe  and  love, 
Lest  by  neglect  the  chords  of  song  should  rust. 


n. 

.Deep  buried  in  tall  grave-yard  grass  thou  wert — 

The  shadows  of  the  dead  thy  sole  defence — 

The  wild  flowers  twining  round  thee  meekly  fond, 

Fearing  their  very  love  might  be  offence. 

in. 

Seeing  thee  thus,  I knew  the  bards  were  gone 

Who  thrilled  thee — and  themselves  thrilled  to  thy  touch  • 
Mangan  and  Moore,  I knew,  were  vanished  ; 

I knelt  and  raised  thee  : did  I dare  too  much  ? 

IV. 

If  Griffin,  or  if  Davis  lived,  a night 

Had  never  fallen  upon  thee,  lying  there  ; 

Or  if  our  living  poets,  loyal  held 
To  native  themes  so  much.  I dare  not  dare. 


62 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


V. 

But  could  I see  thee,  glorious  instrument ! 

The  first  time  in  long  ages  silence-bound  ? 

Thou ! who  wert  nursed  on  ancient  Ossian’s  knee — 
Thence  sacredly  through  ages  handed  down. 

YL 

I ! who  have  heard  thy  echoes  from  my  soul, 

A sickly  boy,  couched  at  my  mother’s  knee  : 

I ! who  have  heard  thy  dirges,  wild  as  winds. 

And  thy  deep  tidal  turns  of  prophecy ! 

vn. 

I ! whom  you  tuned  in  sorrow  day  by  day, 

For  friend,  adviser,  solace,  companie, 

Could  I pass  by  thee,  prostrate,  nor  essay 

To  bear  thee  on  a stage — harp  of  my  loved  Erie  ? 

vni. 

Forgive  me ! oh,  forgive  me,  if  too  bold ! 

I twine  thy  chords  about  my  very  heart, 

And  make  with  every  pulse  of  life  a vow, 

Swearing — nor  years,  nor  death,  shall  us  two  part 

IX. 

I have  no  hope  to  gather  bays,  on  high 

Beneath  the  snows  of  ages,  where  they  bloom, 

As  many  votaries  of  thine  desired, 

And  the  great  favor'd  few  have  haply  done  ; 


x. 

But  if  emblem  o’er  my  dust  should  rise, 

Let  it  be  this  : Our  Harp  within  a wreath 
Of  shamrocks  twining  round  it  lovingly, 

That  flft,  0 Harp!  knnmr-nn  rlp.atk 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


63 


THE  THREE  MINSTRELS. 

Three  Minstrels  play  within  the  Tower  of  Time, 

A weird  and  wondrous  edifice  it  is : 

One  sings  of  war,  the  martial  strain  sublime, 

And  strikes  his  lyre  as  ’twere  a foe  of  his. 

The  sword  upon  his  thigh  is  dripping  red 

From  a foe’s  heart  in  the  mid-battle  slain; 

His  plumed  casque  is  doff’d  from  his  proud  head, 

His  flashing  eye  preludes  the  thundrous  strain. 

Apart,  sequester’d  in  an  alcove  deep, 

Through  which  the  pale  moon  looks  propitious  in, 
Accompanied  by  sighs  that  seem  to  weep, 

The  second  minstrel  sadly  doth  begin 
To  indite  his  mistress  fair,  but  cruel,  who 

Had  trampled  on  the  heart  that  was  her  own ; 

Or  prays  his  harp  to  help  him  how  to  woo, 

And  thrills  with  joy  at  each  responsive  tone. 

Bight  in  the  porch,  before  which,  fair  and  far, 

Plain,  lake,  and  hamlet  fill  the  musing  eye, 

Gazing  toward  the  thoughtful  evening  star 

That  seems  transfixed  upon  the  mountain  high, 
The  third  of  Country  and  of  Duty  sings: 

Slow  and  triumphal  is  the  solemn  strain; 

Like  Death,  he  takes  no  heed  of  chiefs  or  kings, 

But  over  all  he  maketh  Country  reign. 

Sad  Dante  . he,  love-led  from  life,  who  found 
His  way  to  Eden,  and  unhappy  stood 
Amid  the  angels — he,  the  cypress- crown’d, 

Knew  not  the  utmost,  gi ft  of  public  good. 


CA 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


Thoughts  deeper  and  more  solemn  it  inspires 
Than  even  his  lofty  spirit  dare  essay; 

How  then  shall  we,  poor  Emberers  of  old  fires, 
Kindle  the  beacons  of  our  country’s  way  ? 


We  all  are  audience  in  the  Tower  of  Time; 

For  us  alone  at  this  hour  play  the  three, — 
Choose  which  ye  will — the  martial  song  sublime, 
Or  lover  fond;  but  thou  my  Master  be, 

O Bard  of  Duty  and  of  Country’s  cause ! 

Thee  will  I choose  and  follow  for  my  lord  1 
Thy  theme  my  study  and  thy  words  my  laws — 
Muse  of  the  patriot  lyre  and  guardian  sword ! 


THE  EMIGRANT  AT  HOME. 

“ I had  a dream  which  was  not  all  a dream."— Byron. 

I. 

A youth  return’d  from  the  far,  far  West 
Lay  slumber-bound  in  his  early  home, 
When  a fairy  vision  beguiled  his  rest, 

And  a voice  of  music  fill’d  the  room. 


ii. 

“ What  saw  you  in  the  Western  land 
Beyond  the  sea,  my  Irish  boy  ?” 

“ Oh  ! forests  vast,  and  rivers  grand, 
And  a sun  that  shone,  as  if  for  joy.” 


m. 

“ What  saw  you  else  in  the  Western  land 
That  lures  so  many  across  the  sea  ?” 

“Oh!  I saw  men  toiling  on  every  hand, 

And  right  merry  men  they  seem’d  to  be.” 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


65 


IV. 

“ When  you  were  abroad  in  the  Western  land, 
Saw  you  any  who  ask’d  for  me?” 

“ Oh  ! I met  marching  many  a band, 

And  the  air  they  play’d  was  Grammachree. 

v. 

“ And  their  order’d  ranks  you  should  have  seen, 
In  guarded  camp,  or  festive  hall, 

When  their  manly  limbs  were  clad  in  green, 
And  a flag  of  green  flew  over  all.” 


VI. 

The  spirit  clapp’d  her  pearl-pale  hands, 
Proudly  her  silvery  wings  she  shook, 

And  the  sleeping  youth  from  the  far-off  lands 
Bless’d,  as  she  pass’d,  with  a loving  look. 


TEE  PILGRIMS  OF  LIBERTY. 


i. 

Beside  a river  that  I know,  shrined  in  a laurel  grove, 

I see  my  idol — Liberty,  that  wears  the  smile  of  Love  ; 

Her  face  is  toward  the  city,  four  paths  are  at  her  feet, 

They  bear  her  hymns  from  the  four  winds  as  rays  converging 
meet. 

n. 

By  the  four  paths  I see  approach  my  idol’s  votaries : 

Those  from  the  highlands  of  the  West,  from  Northern  valleys 
these ; 


PA  TRIO  TIG  POEMS. 


G6 


From  Shannon  shore  and  Slaney’s  side,  yon  other  pilgrim* 
throng: 

Oh ! wild  around  my  idol’s  shrine  will  surge  their  mingled 
song. 

m. 

And  thither  wends  that  wounded  man,  who  bears  the  muf- 
fled sword 

Once  borne  by  the  comrade  true  his  kindred  heart  adored; 

The  sacred  stains  upon  the  blade  are  drops  of  tyrant  blood: 

He  brings  it  now  to  Freedom’s  shrine,  as  loyal  comrade 
should. 

IV. 

And  thither  wends  the  widow,  with  her  fair  son  at  her  side, 

The  banneret,  whose  eye  is  wet,  beneath  his  brow  of  pride ; 

The  sable  crape  around  the  staff  his  father  bore  is  roll’d — 

The  shining  Sun  across  the  Green  flings  many  a ray  of  gold. 


v. 

The  maiden  with  the  funeral  urn  close  gathered  to  her 
breast 

Goes  thither  to  give  up  the  heart  she  loved  on  earth  the 
best  ; 

She  girt  his  sword  and  gave  him  for  Ireland’s  holy  fight— 
And  once  again  to  Liberty,  Love  yields  her  equal  right. 

VI. 

The  Artist,  with  his  battle  piece — the  Poet,  with  his  song — 
The  Student,  with  his  glowing  heart,  pour  to  the  shrine  along, 
Where  Liberty,  my  idol,  sits  on  a shrine  like  snow, 

By  a gliding  river  that  I love,  near  a city  that  I know. 

VII. 

Oh ! long  around  my  idol’s  throne  may  bloom  the  laurel  trees, 
The  ever  green  and  ever  glad,  they  laugh  at  blight  and 
breeze — 


PATRIOT 10  POEMS. 


67 


True  children  of  our  hardy  clime,  long  may  they  there  be 
seen — 

Like  our  nation’s  banners  folded,  as  deathless  and  as  green. 

VIII. 

Oh!  long  may  the  four  pathways  join  beneath  my  idol’s 
feet, 

And  long  may  Ireland’s  mingled  men  before  her  altar  meet ; 

Oh  ! long  may  man  and  maid  and  youth  go  votaries  to  the 
grove 

Where  reigns  my  idol,  Liberty,  that  wears  the  smile  of  Love. 


HAIL  TO  THE  LAND. 


I. 

Hail  to  the  land  where  Freedom  first 
Through  all  the  feudal  fetters  burst, 

And,  planting  men  upon  their  feet, 

Cried,  Onward ! never  more  retreat ! 

Be  it  yours  to  plant  your  starry  flag 
On  royal  roof  and  castle  crag  ; 

Be  it  yours  to  climb  Earth’s  eastern  slope 
In  championship  of  human  hope, 

Your  war-cry,  Truth ! immortal  word  ; 

Your  weapon,  Justice  ! glorious  sword  ; 
Your  fame  far-traveled,  as  the  levin,1 
And  lasting  as  the  arch  of  heaven. 

Hail  to  the  Happy  Land  I 


n. 

Hail  to  the  land  where  Franklin  lies 
At  peace  beneath  disarmed  skies, 


08 


i'A  TlilO  TIG  T OEMS. 


Where  Jefferson  and  Jackson  rest, 

Like  valiant  men,  on  Victory’s  breast, 

Where,  his  benignant  day-task  done, 

The  clouds  have  closed  round  Washington — 

The  star  amid  the  luminous  host 

WThich  guides  mankind  to  Freedom’s  coast. 

I feel  my  heart  beat  fast  and  high, 

As  to  the  coast  our  ship  draws  nigh  ; 

I burn  the  fresh  foot-prints  to  see 
Of  the  heroes  of  Humanity. 

Hail  to  the  Happy  Land  I 

in. 

Hail  to  the  land  whose  broad  domain 
Rejoices  under  Freedom’s  reign — 

Where  neither  right  nor  race  is  bann’d, 
Where  more  is  done  e’en  than  is  plann’d — 
Where  a lie  liveth  not  in  stone, 

Nor  truth  in  Bible-leaves  alone — 

Where  filial  lives  are  monuments 
To  noble  names  and  high  intents — 

Oh ! where  the  living  still  can  tread, 
Unblushingly,  amid  the  dead  ! 

Hail  to  that  Happy  Land  I 


IV. 

What  can  I lay  on  Freedom’s  shrine 
Meet-offering  to  the  power  divine  ? 

I have  nor  coronet  nor  crown, 

Nor  wealth  nor  fame  can  I lay  down  ; 

But  I have  hated  tyrants  still, 

And  struggled  with  their  wrathful  will ; 

And  when  through  Europe’s  length  they  lied, 
For  thee  I feebly  testified  ; 


1 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


60 


And  oft,  in  better  champion’s  stead, 

In  thy  behoof  I’ve  striven  and  said, 

“ Ah,  be  the  offering  meet  to  thee, 

My  life,  my  all,  dread  Liberty ! 

Hail  to  thy  Happy  Land ! 


v. 

“ The  land  is  worthy  of  its  place, 

The  vanguard  of  the  human  race  ; 

Its  rivers  still  refresh  the  sea, 

As  Truth  does  Time,  unceasingly  ; 

Its  prairie  plains  as  open  lie 
As  a saint’s  soul  before  God’s  eye  ; 

Its  broad-based  mountains  firmly  stand 
Like  Faith  and  Hope  in  their  own  land. 
Heaven  keep  this  soil,  and  may  it  bear 
New  worth  and  wealth  to  every  year  ; 

And  may  men  never  here  bend  knee 
To  any  lord,  O Lord,  but  Thee. 

Hail  to  the  Happy  Land !" 


A MALEDICTION. 

i. 

“ My  native  land ! how  does  it  fare 
Since  last  I saw  its  shore?” 

“ Alas ! alas ! my  exiled  frere, 

It  aileth  more  and  more. 

God  curse  the  knaves  who  yearly  steal 
The  produce  of  its  plains; 

Who  for  the  poor  man  never  feel, 

Yet  gorge  on  labor’s  gains  ! 


TO 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


n. 

“ We  both  can  well  recall  the  time 
When  Ireland  yet  was  gay; 

It  needed  then  no  wayside  sign 
To  show  us  where  to  stay. 

A stranger  sat  by  ev’ry  hearth, 
At  ev’ry  board  he  fed; 

It  was  a work  of  maiden  mirth 
To  make  the  wanderer’s  bed. 


m. 

“ ’Tis  altered  times  : at  every  turn 
A shiftless  gang  you  meet; 

The  hutless  peasants  starve  and  mourn. 
Camp’d  starkly  in  the  street. 

The  warm  old  homes  that  we  have  known 
Went  down  like  ships  at  sea; 

The  gateless  pier,  the  cold  hearth-stone, 
Their  sole  memorials  be. 


IV. 

“We  two  are  old  in  years  and  woes, 

And  Age  has  powers  to  dread  ; 

And  now,  before  our  eyes  we  close, 

Our  malison  be  said: 

The  curse  of  two  gray-headed  men 
Be  on  the  cruel  crew* 

Who’ve  made  our  land  a wild-beast’s  den — 
And  God’s  curse  on  them  too.” 

* Meaning  the  “ exterminating”  landlord*. 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


71 


t- 


A SONG  FOR  THE  SECTIONS. 

i. 

Ye,  who  still  love  our  native  land, 

Who  doubt  not,  nor  despair, 

Come,  let  us  make  another  stand, 

And  never  droop  for  care. 

If  she  is  poor,  she  needs  the  more 
The  service  of  the  true, 

And  laurels  will  be  plenty  yet, 

Though  heroes  may  be  few. 


ii. 

What  though  we  failed  in  ’Forty-eight 
To  form  th’  embattled  line, 

The  more  our  need  to  compensate 
Our  friends  in  ’Forty-nine  ; 

What  though  ships  bear  to  isles  afar 
The  foremost  of  our  race — 

For  them  and  Ireland  both  we’ll  war, 
And  their  slavish  bonds  efface. 

t 

hi. 

All  Europe  shakes  from  shore  to  shore  ; 

The  Jews  bid  for  her  crowns  ; 
Democracy,  with  sullen  roar, 

Affrights  her  feudal  towns  : 

The  kings  are  struggling  for  their  lives 
Amid  the  angry  waves, 

And  every  land  but  Ireland  strives 
To  liberate  its  slaves. 


4— 

7 2 PATRIOTIC  POEMS 

IV. 

Up  ! up  ! ye  banish’d  Irishmen, 

The  soldier’s  art  to  learn  ; 

A time  will  come — Will  ye  be  then 
Fit  for  the  struggle  stern  ? 

A time  will  come  when  Britain’s  flag 
y From  London  Tower  shall  fall — 

Will  ye  be  ready  then  to  strike 
For  Ireland,  once  for  all  ? 


v. 

Oh  ! by  the  memories  of  your  youth, 

I conjure  you  prepare  ; 

By  all  your  vows  and  words  of  truth, 

I ask  you  to  prepare. 

Oh,  by  the  holy  Christian  Creed, 

Which  makes  us  brothers,  rise ! 

And  staunch  the  kindred  wounds  that  bleed, 
Ere  yet  our  nation  dies  ! 

VI. 

Ye  who  still  hope  in  Fatherland, 

Your  trial-time  shall  come, 

When  many  a gallant  exile  band 
Can  strike  a blow  for  home ! 

For  Ireland  and  for  vengeance,  then, 

Arise  and  be  prepared, 

And  strike  the  tyrant  to  the  heart 
The  while  his  breast  is  bared. 

VII. 

No  more  of  mercy — not  a word 
Of  scorning  ’vantage  ground — 

No  more  of  measuring  sword  and  sword, 

Of  being  content  to  wround  ; — 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


73 


But  when  the  battle  is  begun, 
Cleave  open  crown  and  crest  ; 
Then  only  will  your  work  be  done, 
Then  only  can  you  rest. 


“ THE  ARMY  OF  THE  WEST." 


: 


i. 

"We  fight  upon  a new-found  plan,  our  Army  of  the  West — 
Our  brave  brigades,  along  the  line,  will  leave  the  foe  no  rest — 
Our  battle-axes,  bright  and  keen,  with  every  day’s  swift 
sands, 

Lay  low  the  foes  of  Liberty,  and  then  annex  their  lands; 

On,  onward  through  the  Western  woods  our  standard  saileth 
ever 

And  shadows  many  a nameless  peak  and  unbaptized  river — 
The  Army  of  the  Future  we,  the  champions  of  the  TJnborn — 
We  pluck  the  primal  forests  up,  and  sow  their  sites  with 
corn. 

n. 

That  rugged  standard  beareth  the  royal  arms  of  toil — 

The  axe,  and  pike,  and  ponderous  sledge,  and  plough  that 
frees  the  soil — 

The  field  is  made  of  stripes,  and  the  stars  the  crest  supplies. 
And  the  living  eagles  hover  round  the  flag-staffs  where  it 
flies. 

And  thus  beneath  our  standard,  right  merrily  we  go, 

The  Future  for  our  heritage,  the  tangled  Waste  our  foe  : 

The  Army  of  the  Future  we,  the  champions  of  the  Unborn — 
We  pluck  the  primal  forests  up,  and  sow  their  sites  with 


74 


PA  TRIO  TIC  POEMS 


in. 

Down  in  yon  glade  the  anvil  rings  beneath  the  arching  oaks, 

Behind  yon  hills  our  neighbors  drive  young  oxen  in  the 
yokes, 

Yon  laughing  boys  now  boating  down  the  rapid  river’s  tide, 
to  to  the  learned  man  who  keeps  the  log-house  on  its  side — 

Like  suckers  of  the  pine  they  grow,  elastic,  rugged,  tall, 

They  will  hit  a swallow  on  the  wing  with  a single  rifle  ball — 

The  cadets  of  our  army  they,  from  “ the  West-Point”  of  the 
unborn, 

They  too  will  pluck  the  forests  up,  and  sow  their  sites  with 
corn. 

iv, 

Oh  ye  who  dwell  in  cities,  in  the  self-conceited  East, 

Do  you  ever  think  how  by  our  toils  your  comforts  are 
increased  ? 

When  you  walk  upon  your  carpets,  and  sit  on  your  easy 
chairs, 

And  read  self-applauding  stories,  and  give  yourselves  such 
airs — 

Do  you  ever  think  upon  us,  Backwoodsmen  of  the  West, 

Who,  from  the  Lakes  to  Texas,  have  given  the  foe  no  rest  ? 

On  the  Army  of  the  Future,  and  the  champions  of  the 
Unborn, 

Who  pluck  the  primal  forests  up,  and  sow  their  sites  with 
corn  ? 


SONG  OF  THE  SIKHS. 

i. 

Allah  ! H allah  ! the  rivers  are  red 

With  the  blood  and  the  plumes  of  the  Infidel  dead; 

Allah  ! il  allah  ! their  far  isle  grows  pale 

At  the  sound  of  our  song  on  the  western  gale. 


PATRIOTIC  FORMS. 


75 


n. 

This  morning,  how  proud  was  their  muster  and  show, 

As  their  squadrons  swift  wheel’d,  and  their  columns  came 
slow ! 

Wheel’d  swift  to  their  death  by  the  spears  of  Lahore — 
Came  slow  to  feed  Jhailum  full  with  their  gore. 


ni. 

Allah  ! it  allah  ! the  Dost  and  his  son  2 

Shall  hear  of  the  deeds  on  this  bloody  day  done, 

And  a stream  from  the  hills  to  our  camp  we  shall  see, 
Like  the  Ganges,  refreshing  the  shores  of  the  seal 


IV. 

Let  your  hearts  shout  aloud  to  the  arch  of  the  sky, 
For  thither  the  souls  of  our  dead  brothers  fly; 

Oh ! sweet  from  the  Houris  their  welcome  will  be, 

As  they  tell  how  they  fell  ’neath  the  cool  Tamboo  tree. 


v. 

Allah  ! il  allah  ! trust  cannon  and  sabre ! — 

Rest  not ! Paradise  is  the  payment  of  labor  ! 

Allah  ! il  allah  ! another  such  day, 

And,  like  spirits  cast  out,  they  will  flee  and  away  1 


FREEDOM'S  LAND. 


i. 

Where  is  Freedom’s  glorious  land? 

Is  it  where  a lawless  race 
Scorn  all  just  control,  and  stand 
Each  one  ’gainst.  his  brother’s  face? 


76 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


No  ! for  man’s  wild  passions  still 
Heavier  chains  their  tyrants  forge. 
And  his  own  unbridled  will 
Is  itself  the  fiercest  scourge, 

And  a land  of  anarchy 
Never  can  be  truly  free. 

n. 

When  her  fetters  Gallia  broke 
And  indignant  cast  away, 

With  the  old  and  galling  yoke, 

Every  salutary  sway, 

Were  not  the  destroyers  then 
Tyrants  worse  to  meaner  slaves  ? 
Freedom  is  miscall’d  of  men 

WTien  her  footsteps  tread  on  grave*— 
Wliere  unpunish’d  crime  goes  free 
Is  no  land  of  liberty. 

in. 

But  where  men  like  brethren  stand. 
Each  one  his  own  spirit  rules, 

Serving  best  his  own  dear  land, 

Turning  from  the  anarch’s  schools, 
Reverencing  all  lawful  sway — 

Patient  if  it  be  unjust; 

If  the  fabric  should  decay, 

Build,  improve — not  raze  to  dust ; 
Liberty  and  justice  fair 
Find  their  holiest  altars  there ! 


IV. 

Such  be  thou  oh  land  of  mine  ! 

Still’d  be  every  discord  rude  I 
Erin,  let  thy  sons  combine 
In  one  holy  brotherhood  ! 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS . 


77 


Prudent,  temperate,  firm,  and  strong — 
Loyalty  our  watchword  be  ! 

Truth  our  shield  ’gainst  taunt  and  wrong, 
And  warm  hearts  our  chivalry ! 

Loyal  soul  and  stainless  hand, 

Make  our  country  Freedom’s  land  ! 


THE  DESERTED  CHAPEL. 


i. 

Sunday  morning,  calm  and  fair ! 

Ah,  how  beautiful  the  scene  is  ! 

The  blue  hills  shade  the  amber  air, 

The  Slaney  flows,  my  home,  between  us  I 
Do  you  note  the  Sabbath  sun, 

Burnish’d  for  the  day’s  devotion  ? 

Do  you  note  the  white  ships  on 
The  distant,  silent,  silver  ocean  ? 


n. 

“ God  be  praised  for  Ireland’s  beauty ! 

Such  a mother  as  He  gave  us  ? 

Did  we  only  do  our  duty, 

Could  the  powers  of  hell  enslave  us  ? 
E’en  this  river,  did  we  heed  it, 

Safety’s  lesson  yet  might  teach  us. 

Far  and  weak  the  founts  that  feed  it, 
But  to  what  great  end  it  reaches !” 

in. 

So  I thought,  my  way  across 
To  that  wayside  chapel  lowly, 

Whose  rude  eves,  festooned  with  moss, 
Often  moved  me  with  thoughts  holy — 


4- 


PATRIOTIC  P0EM8. 


(Thoughts  that  do  not  love  the  city  !) 
Now,  alas!  all  here  was  altered — 
Even  the  Mass-boy’s  accent  falter’d  ; 
The  congregation,  few  and  sad, 

Such  a look  of  ruin  had, 

That  I could  not  pray  for  pity  1 


Signs  of  grief  on  every  face, 

In  the  consecrated  place  ; 

At  the  altar  I heard  weeping, 

Tears  the  aged  priest’s  face  steeping  ; 

And  a moan  might  rend  a stone, 

Round  the  silent  walls  was  creeping. 

The  very  carved  Saint  in  his  nook 
Had  compassion  in  his  look — 

Chimed  the  sad  winds  through  the  steeple — 
“ Save,  O Jesus  ! save  thy  People  !” 


“ Where,”  thought  I,  “ is  now  the  maiden 
Who  once  knelt  here,  blossom-laden  ? 
Where  the  farmer,  whose  broad  breast 
Here  its  simple  sins  confess’d? 

Some,  perchance,  beyond  Lake  Erie, 

Toil  as  slaves  in  forests  weary  ; 

Some  are  nearer  home  beside  us, 

In  their  cold  graves,  whence  they  chide  us, 
That  we  still  let  feuds  divide  us  !” 


IV. 


v. 


VI. 


Whoso  has  a human  heart, 
Let  him  our  old  chapel  see, 


Note  all  round  it,  nor  depart, 
Till  to  God,  on  bended  knee, 


PA  TRIO  TIG  POEMS. 


79 


He  has  vowed  his  part  to  take 
With  us  aye,  for  Ireland’s  sake, 
And  her  feudal  bonds  to  break. 


A MERE  IRISHMAN’S  LAMENT. 


I. 

Oh,  ancient  land ! where  are  those  lords 
Whose  palace-gates  to  me 
Seem’d  rusted  as  their  father’s  swords, 
Which  won  their  share  in  thee  ! 

Their  avenues  are  all  grass-grown, 

Their  courts  with  moss  are  green, 

Cold  looks  each  tree,  and  tow’r,  and  stone, 
Where  no  master’s  face  is  seen. 


ii. 

Yon  swan  that  sails  across  the  lake, 

How  sad  its  state  appears  ! 

The  raven’s  hoarse,  dull  echoes  wake 
Among  the  oaks  of  years. 

Neglected  feeds  the  fav’rite  steed 
Up  to  the  very  door  ; 

It  whines  : poor  beast ! thy  lord,  I rede, 
Will  ne’er  caress  thee  more. 

iii. 

Far,  far  beyond  the  crumbling  wall 
Which  marks  that  wide  domain, 

Silence  and  sorrow  over  all 

Hath  hung  the  cloud  and  chain. 


80 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


The  stout  yeoman  hath  lost  his  pride, 
The  toilsman’s  strength  hath  past, 
And  lifeless  homes,  from  every  side, 
Stare  us,  like  skulls,  aghast. 

IV. 

Ah,  ancient  land ! what  tree  could  keep 
Its  bearing  high,  or  strength, 

If  the  roots  that  in  the  soil  were  deep 
Fail’d,  as  its  stay,  at  length  ? 

And  art  thou  not  a rootless  tree, 

Dear  land!  fair  land? — ah!  how 
Should  sap  or  firmness  be  in  thee — 
What  stay  of  strength  hast  thou  ? 


v. 

In  foreign  halls  thy  lords  laugh  loud, 

Are  gayest  ’mid  the  gay — 

Their  day  of  life  has  not  a cloud, 

In  the  strange  climes  far  away. 

Free  flows  their  wealth,  and  shines  their  worth, 
In  France,  Spain,  Italy; 

They’ve  smiles  and  wealth  for  all  the  earth, 
And  cold  neglect  for  thee. 

VI. 

Not  such  our  lords  of  ancient  time, 

Whose  ample  roofs  rose  o’er 
Aileach,  Carmen,  Tara  sublime — 

They  loved  their  natal  shore  ; 

Theirs  were  the  homes  that  fill’d  the  land 
With  light  like  lofty  lamps — 

Unlike  this  errant,  night-born  band, 

Chiefs  of  death' dews  and  damps! 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


81 


■K 


VII. 

But  weak  as  froth  such  plaintive  strain — 
Let  us  no  more  repine  ; 

Let  them  still  from  our  soil  remain, 

Still  laugh  at  wrath  divine. 

The  sterner  and  the  louder  call, 

Shall  drag  them  o’er  the  sea — 

“ The  lord  that  dwells  not  in  his  hall, 

No  lord  o’er  us  shall  be  !” 


TEE  RECUSANT . ° 


You  swore  me  an  oath  when  the  grass  was  green. 

To  win  me  a royal  dower, 

To  take  me  hence  to  the  altar,  I ween, 

And  thence  beyond  their  power. 

n. 

By  St.  Berach’s  staff,  and  St.  Buadan’s  bell, 

And  by  all  the  oaths  in  heaven, 

You  swore  to  love  me,  when  spring  was  green, 

While  breath  to  your  body  was  given. 

in. 

And  your  faith  has  flown  ere  the  corn  was  ripe, 

And  your  love  ere  the  leaves  do  fall — 

I am  not  treated  as  queen  or  as  wife, 

Or  honor’d  or  dower’d  at  all. 

* This  little  poem  would  seem  to  be  allegorical,  representing  Ireland  reproach 
ing  England  for  breach  of  faith.— Ed, 


82 


PATIU011C  POEMS. 


IV. 

Oh ! false  and  fair  and  fickle  of  faith, 

Nor  lover  nor  name  need  I, 

I have  had  young  lovers  true  to  the  death, 
And  others  who  shall  not  die. 

v. 

I shall  be  woo’d  when  the  spring  is  green, 
I shall  win  me  a royal  dower, 

And  my  true  lovers  all,  ere  long,  I ween, 
Shall  save  me  from  your  power  ! 


THE  CELT'S  CONSOLATION. 

i. 

If  our  island  lies  prostrate,  why  should  we  despair  ? 
What  race,  for  resistance,  with  ours  can  compare  ? 
Some  wiser,  some  richer,  are  found  in  the  world, 
But  their  souls  are  as  red  as  the  flags  they  unfurl’d ! 


n. 

With  swords  by  their  sides  some  are  harness’d  to  shame, 
But  the  bronze  of  success  cannot  hide  the  black  name  ; 
Nor  the  diamonded  brow  shield  the  guilty  abhorr’d, 

When  their  pride  topples  down  in  the  breath  of  the  Lord. 

m. 

O’er  the  wTaters  of  Time,  in  the  chronicler’s  bark, 

As  we  sail  by  the  Ages,  some  brilliant,  some  dark, 

We  behold  how  the  empire  of  blood  is  o’erthrown, 

And  we  see  its  black  bastions  all  round  us  bestrewn. 

1 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


83 


4 


IT. 

If  we  may  not  be  free,  let  us  try  to  be  frank, 

Let  us  fight  life’s  long  battle  with  well-order’d  rank 
If  we  may  not  be  great,  let  us  try  to  be  good, 

And  long  for  no  laurels  besprinkled  with  blood  1 


NO  SURRENDER, 

i. 

Heard  amid  the  landlord’s  wassail, 

In  his  tear-bemoated  castle — 

Heard  by  peer  and  heard  by  peasant, 

As  the  prophet  of  the  present — 

Heard  in  Dublin’s  dimest  alleys, 

Heard  in  Connaught’s  saddest  valleys — 

In  our  night-time,  from  the  North, 

Came  a voice  to  stir  the  earth, 

With  its  watchword,  “No  surrender  1” 


ii. 

“No  surrender!”  It  is  spoken — 

Be  the  people’s  vow  unbroken ! 

“ No  surrender  !”  Sons  of  toil, 

Lineal  heirs  of  Irish  soil ! 

Holy  lips  have  blessed  the  bans, 

Wedding  of  the  hostile  clans — 

“ No  surrender !”  Men  of  God — 

Ye  shall  break  the  tyrant’s  rod 

With  your  Gospel,  “No  surrender!” 

in. 

“No  surrender !”  Man  of  might, 

Who  woke  the  voice  thajbro^ 


84 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


Whose  heart  is  fire,  whose  brain  is  light — 
You  shall  lead  and  win  the  fight ! 

On  Slieve  Donard  plant  your  banner, 

Let  the  mountain  breezes  fan  her. 

Ireland  feels  its  dawning  splendor, 
Hoping,  chiding,  guiding,  tender, 

Shining  on  us,  “No  surrender  1” 


DEEDS  DONE  IN  DATS  OF  SHAME. 


I. 

A deed  ! a deed ! O God,  vouchsafe, 

Which  shall  not  die  with  me, 

But  which  may  bear  my  memory  safe 
O’er  time’s  wreck-spotted  sea, — 

A deed,  upon  whose  brow  shall  stand 
Traced,  large  in  lines  of  flame — 

“ This  hath  been  done  for  Ireland, 

Done  in  the  days  of  shame  1” 

n. 

An  age  will  come,  when  Fortune’s  sun 
Will  beam  in  Ireland’s  sky, 

And  mobs  of  flatterers  then  will  ru*. 

To  hail  her  majesty. 

Amid  that  crowd  I shall  not  be 
To  join  in  the  acclaim  ; 

But  deeds  will  have  their  memory, 

Though  done  in  days  of  shame. 

— r 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


X 


85 
in. 

When  six  feet  of  a stranger  soil 
Shall  press  upon  my  heart, 

And  envy’s  self  will  pause  awhile 
To  praise  the  manly  part — 

Oh  ye  who  rise  in  Ireland,  then, 

To  fight  your  way  to  fame, 

Think  of  the  deeds  by  mouldering  men 
Done  in  the  days  of  shame ! 


TEE  GATHERING  OF  THE  NATIONS. 

i. 

Gather  together  the  nations ! proclaim  the  war  to  all : 
Armor  and  sword  are  girding  in  palace,  tower,  and  hall ; 
The  kings  of  the  earth  are  donning  their  feudal  mail  again — 
Gather  together  the  nations ! arouse  and  arm  the  men. 


ii. 

Who  cometh  out  of  the  North?  ’Tis  Russia’s  mighty  Czar  ; 
With  giant  hand  he  pointeth  to  a never-setting  star  ; 

The  Cossack  springs  from  his  couch — the  Tartar  leaves  his 
den ! — 

Ho ! herald  souls  of  Europe,  arouse  and  arm  the  men. 

hi. 

What  does  the  Frank  at  Rome,  with  the  Russian  at  the 
Rhine  ? 

And  Albion,  pallid  as  her  cliffs,  shows  neither  soul  nor  sign  ; 
Pope  Pius  sickeneth  daily,  in  the  foul  Sicilian  fen — 

Ho  ! wardens  of  the  world’s  strongholds,  arouse  and  arm  the 

men. 


8G 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


IV. 

The  future  circleth  nearer  on  its  grey  portentious  wings, 
Pale  are  the  cheeks  of  princes,  and  sore  afraid  are  kings ! — 
Once  faced  by  the  furious  nations,  they’ll  flee  in  fear,  and 
then, 

By  the  right  divine  of  the  fittest,  we  shall  have  the  reign  of 
men  1 


ROCKS  AND  RIVERS. 

AN  IRISH  FABLE. 

I. 

When  the  Rivers  first  were  born, 

From  the  hill  tops  each  surveyed, 

Through  the  lifting  haze  of  morn, 

Where  his  path  through  life  was  laid. 

n. 

Down  they  pour’d  through  heath  and  wood, 
Ploughing  up  each  passing  field  ; 

All  gave  way  before  the  flood, 

The  Rocks  alone  refused  to  yield. 

m. 

“Tour  pardon  !’’  said  the  Waters  bland, 

“ Permit  us  to  pass  on  our  way  ; 

We’re  sent  to  fertilize  the  land — 

And  will  be  chid  for  this  delay.” 

IV. 

“ You  sent !”  the  Rocks  replied  with  scorn, 
“You  muddy,  ill-conditioned  streams  ; 

Return  and  live,  where  ye  were  born, 

Nor  cheat  yourselves  with  such  wild  dreams.’* 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 

v. 

“ You  will  not  ?”  “ No !’’  The  Waters  mild 

Called  loudly  on  their  kindred  stock, 

Wave  upon  wave  their  strength  they  piled  ; 
And  cleft  in  twain  rock  after  rock. 

VI. 

They  nurtured  towns,  they  fed  the  land, 

They  brought  new  life  to  fruits  and  flocks  : 
The  Rivers  are  the  People,  and 

Our  Irish  Landlords  are  the  Rocks. 


NEW-  TEAR’S  THOUGHTS. 

I. 

A Spirit  from  the  skies 

Came  into  our  trodden  land  ; 

It  glow’d  in  roseate  dyes, 

And  around  its  brow  a band 
Was  bound  like  a sun-stream  in  the  west ; 
And  as  its  accents  broke 
O’er  the  land,  our  men  awoke, 

And  each  felt  the  stranger’s  yoke 
On  his  breast ! 


n. 

And  first  a flush  of  shame 

Spread  along  their  manly  brows, 
And  next,  in  God’s  dread  name, 

They  swore,  and  sealed  their  vows. 
That  Ireland  a free  state  should  be  ; 


88 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


And  from  the  mountains  then, 
And  from  each  glade  and  glen, 
Gray  spirits  taught  the  men 
To  be  free. 


in. 

There  was  candor  in  the  land, 

And  loud  voices  in  the  air, 

And  the  poet  waved  his  wand, 

And  the  peasant’s  arm  was  bare, 

And  Religion  smiled  on  Valor  as  her  child  ; 
But,  alas ! alas  ! a blight 
Came  o’er  us  in  a night, 

And  now  our  stricken  plight 
Drives  me  wild ! 

IV. 

But  wherefore  should  I weep, 

When  work  is  to  be  done  ? 

Wherefore  dreaming  lie  asleep 
In  the  quick’ning  morning  sun  ? 

Since  yesterday  is  gone  and  pass’d  away 
I will  seek  the  holy  road 
That  our  martyr  saints  have  trod, 

And  along  it  bear  my  load 
As  I may ! 

v. 

I will  bear  me  as  a man — 

As  an  Irish  man,  in  sooth — 

No  barrier,  wile,  or  ban, 

Shall  stay  me  from  the  truth, 

I will  have  it,  or  perish  in  the  chace — 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


89 


That  I loved  my  own  isle  well 
My  bones  at  least  shall  tell, 

And  on  what  quest  I fell 
In  that  place. 

VI. 

But  if  God  grant  me  life 
To  see  this  struggle  out, 

The  end  of  inward  strife 
And  the  fall  of  foes  without, 

I will  die  without  a murmur  or  a tear  ; — 
For  in  that  holy  hour, 

You’d  not  miss  me  from  your  dower 
Of  love,  and  hope,  and  power, 

Erin,  dear! 


CHANGE. 

i. 

How  fair  is  the  sun  on  Lough  Gara ! 

How  bright  on  the  land  of  the  Gael ! 

For  Summer  has  come  with  her  verdure, 

To  gladden  the  drooping  and  pale  ; 

And  morn  o’er  the  landscape  is  stealing, 

The  meadows  are  joyous  with  May  ; 

All  lightsome  and  brightsome  the  hours — 
Poor  Erin  was  never  so  gay  ! 

n. 

How  loud  is  the  storm  on  Lough  Gara ! 

How  dark  on  the  land  of  the  Gael ! 

The  clouds  they  are  split  with  red  lightning, 
The  blasts  how  they  mutter  and  rail ! 


4 


90 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


Oh,  black  is  the  evening  around  us, 

And  gone  are  the  smiles  of  the  mom, 

All  gloomsome  and  dreary  the  hours — 
Poor  Erin  was  never  so  lorn ! 

HI. 

Sweet  mother ! how  like  to  our  story ! 

How  like  our  own  mournfullest  doom — 
Now  bright  with  the  prestige  of  glory — 
Now  dashed  into  gloomiest  gloom  ! 

How  late  since  our  dear  flag  flew  o’er  us ! 

How  soon  did  our  poor  struggles  fail ! 
And  frail  as  the  gladness  of  Gara 

Were  the  hopes  in  the  heart  of  the  Gael ! 


TEE  DAWNING  OF  THE  DAT 


I. 

In  our  darkness  we  find  comfort, 
In  our  loneliness  some  joy, 
When  Hope,  like  the  moon  arises, 
Night’s  phantoms  to  destroy  ; 
The  spectral  fires  that  haunt  us 
Before  its  light  give  way, 

And  the  Unseen  cannot  daunt  us 
At  the  dawning  of  the  day. 


n< 

There  are  empty  homes  in  Ireland, 
There  are  full  ships  on  the  sea  ; 
Sons  and  brothers  are  awaiting 
Their  people  patiently  ; 


PA  TRIO  TIC  POEMS. 


91 


Their  eyes  are  on  the  ocean, 

And  they  cannot  turn  away, — 
How  sweet  will  be  their  meeting 
At  the  dawning  of  the  day. 

m. 

I,  too,  am  like  a merchant 

Whose  wealth  is  on  the  deep  ; 
The  blast  that  blows  unkindly 
Could  almost  make  me  weep  ; 

I think  of  the  friend-freighted  ship, 
That  leaves  my  native  bay — 

May  the  saints  be  its  protection 
Till  the  dawning  of  the  day ! 


THE  SEARCH  FOR  THE  GAEL. 

I. 

I left  the  highway — I left  the  street — 

In  Albyn  I sought  them  long  ; 

I follow’d  the  track  of  Kenneth’s  feet, 

And  the  sound  of  Ossian’s  song  ; 

By  the  Kymric  Clyde,  and  in  Galloway  wild, 
I sought  for  the  wreck  of  my  race  ; 

But  the  clouds  that  the  hills  of  Albyn  hide 
Have  pitied  their  forfeit  place. 

n. 

I look’d  for  the  Gael  in  the  Cambrian  glen, 
From  the  Cambrian  mountains  ’mid, 

And  I saw  only  mute,  coal-mining  men — 
The  face  of  my  race  was  hid. 


92 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


At  Merlin’s  work  in  Caernarvon  waste 
They  knew  not  Merlin’s  name — 

And  the  lines  the  hand  of  the  master  traced 
As  the  Devil’s  craft  they  claim. 

in. 

I look’d  for  the  Gael  in  green  Innisfail, 

And  they  showed  me  cowering  there 
Misshapen  forms,  cast  down  and  pale, 

Thy  disciplined  host,  despair  ! 

But  I noticed  yet  in  their  stony  eyes 
A flash  they  could  not  veil, 

And  I said,  “ Will  no  brave  man  arise 
To  strike  on  this  flint  with  steel  ?” 


IV. 

I have  found  my  race — I have  found  my  race, 
But  oh  ! so  fallen  and  low, 

That  their  very  sires,  if  they  look’d  in  their  face, 
Their  own  sons  would  not  know. 

Still  I’ve  found  my  race — I’ve  found  my  race, 
And  to  me  this  race  is  dear, 

And  I pray  that  Heaven  may  grant  me  grace 
To  toil  for  them  many  a year. 


IT  IS  EASY  TO  DIE. 

I. 

It  is  easy  to  die 

When  one’s  work  is  done — 

To  pass  from  the  earth 
Like  a harvest  day’s  sun, 

After  opening  the  flowers  and  ripening  the  grain  * 

Bound  the  homes  and  the  scenes  where  our  friends  remain. 


PA  TRIO  TIG  P OEMS.  *J3 

II. 

It  is  easy  to  die 

When  one’s  work  is  done — 

Like  Simeon,  the  priest, 

Who  saw  God’s  Son  ; 

In  the  fulness  of  years,  and  the  fulness  of  faith, 

It  is  easy  to  sleep  on  the  clay  couch  of  death. 

in. 

But  ’tis  hard  to  die 

While  one’s  native  land 
Has  scarce  strength  to  cry 
’Neath  the  spoiler’s  hand  ; 

O merciful  God  ! vouchsafe  that  I 
May  see  Ireland  free, — then  let  me  die. 


ODE  TO  AN  EMIGRANT  SHIP. 


i. 

Let  us  speak  the  ship  that  stands 
Boldly  out  from  sheltering  lands  : 
Like  a proud  steed  for  the  goal — 
Like  a space-defying  soul  ; 

Comet  bright,  and  swift  that  hath 
Enter’d  on  her  chosen  path  I 

n. 

By  the  color  that  thou  wearest, 

By  the  precious  freight  thou  bearest, 
By  the  forests  where  you  grew, 

In  the  land  you  steer  unto — 

Ship  be  ready,  and  be  true  1 


94 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


m. 

Tremble  not  beneath  the  weight 
Of  your  anxious  human  freight  ; 
Freight  beyond  all  cost  or  price, 

Of  gold,  or  pearls,  or  Indian  spice  ; 

Steadily,  oh  steadily, 

Through  fickle  winds  and  troubled  sea 
Bear  the  fallen  to  the  free, 

Tenderly,  oh  tenderly ! 


IY. 

Munster’s  headlands  fade  away  ; 

Old  Kinsale  dons  its  baraid  grey  ; 4 
No  Channel  light  here  shows  the  way — 
It  is  no  landlock’d  boating  bay 

Their  vessel  heads  for  now — 
From  the  east  unto  the  setting  sun, 

A watery  field  their  eyes  rest  on, 

Green  is  the  soil  they  plough. 
Here  wave  vaults  wave  in  sportive  speed, 
Like  schoolboys  in  a summer  mead  ; 
While  the  brave  ship  with  lofty  port, 
Ambitious,  spurns  their  idle  sport, 

And  holds  upon  her  way  afar, 

For  higher  prize  and  sterner  war. 

v. 

Upon  her  deck  a child  I see, 

A young  adventurer  on  the  sea  ; 

And  ever  hath  its  mother  press’d 
Her  infant  to  her  gentle  breast  ; 

Now  looking  westward  hopefully, 

Now  turning  eastward  mournfully — 

The  Past  and  Future — light  and  shade 
Upon  her  brow  a truce  have  made. 


+ 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


95 


VI. 

By  the  ocean  fame  thou’st  won, 
Gallant  ship,  sail  fleetly  on ! 
Proudly,  safely,  sail  once  more 
To  thine  own  paternal  shore  ; 
Stars  upon  thy  standard  shine — 
Never  shame  that  flag  of  thine ! 

VII.  ‘ 

Pleasant  harborage  waiteth  thee, 
Off  beyond  this  surging  sea  : 
Where  thy  mighty  anchors  shall, 
In  the  ooze,  sleep  where  they  fall  ; 
And  thy  brave,  unbending  masts 
Creak  no  more  to  northern  blasts  ; 
Quiet  tides  and  welcoming  cheer 
Waiteth,  good  ship,  for  you  here ! 

VIII. 

Steadfast  to  one  purpose  still, 

Hold  on  with  unwavering  will  ; 
Thus  the  hero  wins  renown — 

Thus  the  martyr  wins  his  crown  : 
Thus  the  poet — thus  the  sage 
Find  their  port  in  history’s  page  ; 
Stars  upon  thy  standard  shine — 
Never  shame  that  flag  of  thine ! 


“ WHEN  FIGHTING  WAS  THE  FASHION." 

i. 

We’ve  ships  of  steam,  and  we  have  wires, 
Thought  travels  like  a flash  on — 

But  much  we’ve  lost  that  was  our  sires’, 

When  lighting  was  the  fashion. 


96 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


n. 

Oh  gay  and  gentle  was  their  Mood — 
Who  Danes  and  Dutch  did  dash  on, 
Who  to  the  last  all  odds  withstood, 
When  fighting  was  the  fashion. 

in. 

The  grain  that  grew  in  Ireland  then. 
Their  own  floors  they  did  thrash  on — 
They  lived  and  died  like  Christian  men. 
When  fighting  was  the  fashion. 

IV. 

Then  Milan  mail,  in  many  a field, 
Mountmellick  swords  did  clash  on, 
And  generals  to  our  chiefs  did  yield. 
When  fighting  was  the  fashion. 

v. 

But  now,  oh  shame ! we  lick  the  hand 
That  daily  lays  the  lash  on — 

Luck  never  can  befall  our  land, 

Till  fighting  comes  in  fashion. 


HOPE. 

HIBERNIA. 

I. 

Tell  me  truly,  pensive  sage, 

Seest  thou  signs  on  any  page, 
Know’st  a volume  yet  to  ope, 

Where  I may  read  of  hope — of  hope  t 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


97 


II. 

Dare  I seek  it  where  the  wave 
Grieves  above  Leander’s  grave  ? 
Must  I follow  forth  my  quest 
In  the  wider,  freer  West  ? 

m. 

Shall  I seek  its  sources  still, 
Delving  under  Aileach  hill  ? 

Must  I wait  for  Cashel’s  fall 
To  build  anew  Temora’s  hall  ? 

THE  SAGE. 

IV. 

Genius,  no  ! the  destined  morn 
In  the  East  shall  ne’er  be  born  ; 
Genius,  no ! thy  ancient  quest 
May  not  be  answer’d  in  the  West. 


v. 

Not  where  the  war-laden  tide 
Continents  and  camps  divide, 

Not  where  Russ  and  Moslem  cope, 
Shall  break  the  morn  of  Erin’s  hope. 


VI. 

On  Antrim’s  cliffs,  on  Cleena’s  strands, 
Thou  shalt  marshal  filial  bands  ; 

And  deep  Dunmore  and  dark  Dunloe 
Shall  kindle  in  the  sunburst’s  glow. 


vn. 

On  native  fields,  by  native  strength, 
Thy  fetters  shall  be  burst  at  length, 
Then  will  and  skill,  not  note  and  trope, 
Shall  stand  the  sponsors  of  thy  hope. 


98 


PATRIOTIC  POEm. 


THE  REAPER’S  SONQ 
Air — The  Jolly  Shearers. 


I. 

The  August  sun  is  setting 
Like  a fire  behind  the  hills — 

’Twill  rise  again  to  see  us  free 
Of  life  or  of  its  ills  ; 

For  what  is  life,  but  deadly  strife 
That  knows  no  truce  or  pause, 

And  what  is  death,  but'  want  of  breath 
To  curse  their  alien  laws? 

Chorus — Then  a-shearing  let  us  go,  my  boys, 
A-shearing  let  us  go, 

On  our  own  soil  ’twill  be  no  toil 
To  lay  the  corn  low. 

H. 

The  harvest  that  is  growing 
Was  given  us  by  God — 

Praise  be  to  Him,  the  sun  and  shower 
Work’d  for  us  at  his  nod. 

The  lords  of  earth,  in  gold  and  mirth, 

Ride  on  their  ancient  way, 

But  could  their  smile  have  clothed  the  isle 
In  such  delight  to-day  ? 

Chorus. 

HI. 

“ How  will  you  go  a-shearing, 

Dear  friends  and  neighbors  all  ?” 

“ Oh,  we  will  go  with  pike  and  gun, 

To  have  our  own  or  fall ; 


t 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


99 


We’ll  stack  our  arms  and  stack  our  com 
Upon  the  same  wide  plain  ; 

We’ll  plant  a guard  in  barn  and  yard, 

And  give  them  grape  for  grain.” 

Chorus. 

rv. 

God  speed  ye,  gallant  shearers, 

May  your  courage  never  fail, 

May  you  thrash  your  foes,  and  send  the  chaff 
To  England  on  the  gale  ! 

May  you  have  a glorious  harvest-home, 

Whether  I’m  alive  or  no  ; 

Your  corn  grows  here , the  foe  comes  there — 

Or  it  or  he  must  go. 

Chorus — Then  a-shearing  let  us  go,  my  boys, 
A-shearing  we  will  go, 

On  our  own  soil  ’twill  be  no  toil 
To  cut  the  corn  low. 


A HARVEST  HYMN. 

i. 

God  has  been  bountiful ! garlands  of  gladness 
Grow  by  the  waysides  exorcising  sadness, 

Shedding  their  bloom  on  the  pale  cheek  of  slavery, 
Holding  out  plumes  for  the  helmets  of  bravery, 
Birds  in  them  singing  this  sanctified  stave — 

“ God  has  been  bountiful — Man  must  be  brave  l” 

n. 

Look  on  this  harvest  of  plenty  and  promise — 

Shall  we  sleep  while  the  enemy  snatches  it  from  us? 

H 


100 


PATRIOTIC  PO  rites. 


See  where  the  sun  on  the  golden  grain  sparkles  ! 
Lo  ! where  behind  it  the  reaper’s  home  darkles ! 
Hark ! the  cry  ringing  out,  “ Save  us — oh,  save ! 
God  has  been  bountiful — Man  must  be  brave  1” 


m. 

From  the  shores  of  the  ocean,  the  farther  and  hither, 
Where  the  victims  of  famine  and  pestilence  wither, 
Lustreless  eyes  stare  the  pitying  heaven, 

Arms,  black,  unburied,  appeal  to  the  levin — 

Voices  unceasing  shout  over  each  wave, 

“ God  has  been  bountiful — Man  must  be  brave !” 

IV. 

Would  ye  live  happily,  fear  not  nor  falter — 

Peace  sits  on  the  summit  of  Liberty’s  altar ! 

Would  ye  have  honor — honor  was  ever 

The  prize  of  the  hero-like,  death-scornin  g liver ! 

Would  ye  have  glory — she  crowns  not  the  slave — 

God  has  been  bountiful,  you  must  be  brave  ! 

v. 

Swear  by  the  bright  streams  abundantly  flowing, 

Swear  by  the  hearths  where  wet  weeds  are  growing — 

By  the  stars  and  the  earth,  and  the  four  winds  of  heaven, 
That  the  land  shall  be  saved,  and  its  tyrants  outdriven, 
Do  it ! and  blessings  will  shelter  your  grave — 

God  has  been  bountiful — will  ye  be  brave  ? 


PATRIOTIC  l'OEMS. 


101 


THE  LIVING  AND  THE  DEAD 


I. 

Bright  is  the  Spring-time,  Erin,  green  and  gay  to  see  ; 

But  my  heart  is  heavy,  Erin,  with  thoughts  of  thy  sons  and 
thee  ; 

Thinking  of  your  dead  men  lying  as  thick  as  grass  new 
mown — 

Thinking  of  your  myriads  dying,  unnoted  and  unknown — 

Thinking  of  your  myriads  flying  beyond  the  abysmal  waves — 

Thinking  of  your  magnates  sighing,  and  stifling  their 
thoughts  like  slaves ! 

n. 

Oh ! for  the  time,  dear  Erin,  the  fierce  time  long  ago, 

When  your  men  felt,  dear  Erin,  and  their  hands  could  strike 
a blow ! 

When  your  Gaelic  chiefs  were  ready  to  stand  in  the  bloody 
breach — 

Danger  but  made  them  steady;  they  struck  and  saved  their 
speech ! 

But  where  are  the  men  to  head  ye,  and  lead  ye  face  to  face, 

To  trample  the  powers  that  tread  ye,  men  of  the  fallen  race  ? 


m. 

The  yellow  corn,  dear  Erin,  waves  plenteous  o’er  the  plain  ; 
But  where  are  the  hands,  dear  Erin,  to  gather  in  the  grain  ? 
The  sinewy  man  is  sleeping  in  the  crowded  churchyard  near, 
And  his  young  wife  is  keeping  him  lonesome  company  there  ; 
His  brother,  shoreward  creeping,  has  begged  his  way  abroad, 
And  his  sister — though,  for  weeping,  she  scarce  could  see 
the  road. 


102 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS . 


IV. 

No  other  nation,  Erin,  but  only  you  would  bear 
A yoke  like  yours,  O Erin  ! a month,  not  to  say  a year  ; * 
And  will  you  bear  it  forever,  writhing  and  sighing  sore, 

Nor  learn — learn  now  or  never — to  dare,  not  to  deplore — 
Learn  to  join  in  one  endeavor  your  creeds  and  people  all — 
’Tis  only  thus  can  you  sever  your  tyrant’s  iron  thrall. 


v. 

Then  call  your  people,  Erin  ! call  with  a prophet’s  cry — 

Bid  them  link  in  union,  Erin  ! and  do  like  men  or  die — 

Bid  the  hind  from  the  loamy  valley,  the  miller  from  the  fall — 
Bid  the  craftsman  from  his  alley,  the  lord  from  his  lordly 
hall— 

Bid  the  old  and  the  young  man  rally,  and  trust  to  work, 
not  words, 

And  thenceforth  ever  shall  ye  be  free  as  the  forest  birds. 


DEATH  OF  TEE  HOMEWARD  BOUND. 

i. 

Paler  and  thinner  the  morning  moon  grew, 

Colder  and  sterner  the  rising  wind  blew — 

The  pole  star  had  set  in  a forest  of  cloud, 

And  the  icicles  crackled  on  spar  and  on  shroud, 

When  a voice  from  below  we  feebly  heard  cry, 

“ Let  me  see,  let  me  see  my  own  land  ere  I die. 

n. 

“ Ah ! dear  sailor,  say ! have  we  sighted  Cape  Clear  ? 

Can  you  see  any  sign  ? Is  the  morning  light  near  ? 

You  are  young,  my  brave  boy ! thanks,  thanks  for  your  hand, 
Help  me  up  till  I get  a last  glimpse  of  the  land. 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


103 


Thank  God,  ’tis  the  sun  that  now  reddens  the  sky, 

I shall  see,  I shall  see  my  own  land  ere  I die. 

hi. 

“ Let  me  lean  on  your  strength,  I am  feeble  and  old, 

And  one  half  of  my  heart  is  already  stone-cold  : 

Forty  years  work  a change ! when  I first  cross’d  this  sea, 
There  were  few  on  the  deck  that  could  grapple  with  me  ; 
But  my  youth  and  my  prime  in  Ohio  went  by, 

And  I’m  come  back  to  see  the  old  spot  ere  I die.” 

IV. 

’Twas  a feeble  old  man,  and  he  stood  on  the  deck, 

His  arm  round  a kindly  young  mariner’s  neck — 

His  ghastly  gaze  fix’d  on  the  tints  of  the  east 
As  a starveling  might  stare  at  the  sound  of  a feast  ; 

The  morn  quickly  rose  and  reveal’d  to  his  eye 
The  land  he  had  pray’d  to  behold,  and  then  die  1 

v. 

Green,  green  was  the  shore,  though  the  year  was  near  done— 
High  and  haughty  the  capes  the  white  surf  dash’d  upon — 
A gray  ruin’d  convent  was  down  by  the  strand, 

And  the  sheep  fed  afar,  on  the  hills  of  the  land  ! 

“ God  be  with  you,  dear  Ireland !”  he  gasp’d  with  a sigh  ; 

“ I have  lived  to  behold  you — I’m  ready  to  die.” 

VI. 

He  sunk  by  the  hour,  and  his  pulse  ’gan  to  fail, 

As  we  swept  by  the  headland  of  storied  Kinsale  ; 

Off  Ardigna  Bay  it  came  slower  and  slower, 

And  his  corpse  was  clay-cold  as  we  sighted  Tramore  ; 

At  Passage  we  waked  him,  and  now  he  doth  lie 
In  the  lap  of  the  land  he  beheld  but  to  die. 


104 


PA  TRIO  TIC  P OEMS. 


TEE  THREE  DREAMS. 

l. 

Borne  on  the  wheel  of  night,  I lay 
And  dream’d  as  it  softly  sped — 

Toward  the  shadowy  hour  that  spans  the  way 
Whence  spirits  come,  ’tis  said  : 

And  my  dreams  were  three; — 

The  first  and  worst 

Was  of  a land  alive,  yet  ’cursed, 

That  burn’d  in  bonds  it  couldn’t  burst — 

And  thou  wert  the  land,  Erie  ! 

n. 

A starless  landscape  came 

’Twixt  that  scene  and  my  aching  sight, 

And  anon  two  spires  of  flame 
Arose  on  my  left  and  right  ; 

And  a warrior  throng 
Were  marching  along, 

Timing  their  tramp  to  a battle  song, 

And  I felt  my  heart  from  their  zeal  take  fire, 

But,  ah ! my  dream  fled  as  that  host  drew  nigher ! 

m. 

Next,  methought  I woke,  and  walk’d  alone 
On  a causeway  all  with  grass  o’ergrown, 

That  led  to  ranks  of  ruins  wan, 

Where  echo’d  no  voice  or  step  of  man  ; 

Deadly  still  was  the  heavy  air, 

Horrible  silence  was  everywhere — 

No  human  thing,  no  beast,  no  bird 

In  the  dread  Death-land  sung  or  stirr’d  ; 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


105 


Saint  Patrick’s  image  up  in  a nook 
Held  in  its  hand  a Prophecy  Book, 

And  its  mystic  lines  were  made  plain  to  me, 
And  they  spoke  thy  destiny,  loved  Erie  I 


IV. 

“ The  skene  and  the  sparthe, 

The  lament  for  the  dearth, 

The  voice  of  all  mirth 
Shall  be  hush’d  on  thy  hearth, 

O Erie ! 

And  your  children  want  earth 
When  they  bury ! 

Till  Tanist  and  Kerne 
Their  past  evils  unlearn, 

And  in  penitence  turn 
To  their  Father  in  heaven  ; 

Then  shall  wisdom  and  light, 

Then  manhood  and  might, 

And  their  land  and  their  right 
To  the  sons  of  Milesius  be  given. 

But  never  till  then — 

’Till  they  make  themselves  men — 

Can  the  chains  of  their  bondage  be  riven !” 


TEE  EXILE’S  MEDITATION . 


I. 

Alone  in  this  mighty  city,  queen  of  the  continent ! 

I ponder  on  my  people’s  fate  in  grief  and  discontent — 

Alas ! that  I have  lived  to  see  them  wiled  and  cast  away, 

And  driven  like  soulless  cattle  from  their  native  land  a 


prey. 


106 


PATR10T10  POEMS. 


II. 

These  men,  are  they  not  our  brethren,  grown  at  our  mother’s 
breast  ? 

Are  they  not  come  of  the  Celtic  blood,  in  Europe  held  the 
best  ? 

Are  they  not  heirs  of  Brian,  and  children  of  Eoghan’s  race, 

Who  rose  up  like  baited  tigers  and  sprung  in  the  foeman’s 
face  ? 

in. 

And  why  should  they  seek  another  shore,  to  live  in  another 
land? 

Had  they  not  plenty  at  their  feet,  and  sickles  in  their  hand  ? 

Did  an  earthquake  march  upon  them,  did  Nature  make  them 
flee, 

Or  do  they  fly  for  fear,  and  to  seek  some  ready-made  Liberty  ? 

IV. 

I have  read  in  ancient  annals  of  a race  of  gallant  men 

Who  fear’d  neither  Dane  nor  devil ; but  it  is  long  since  then — 

And  “ cowardice  is  virtue,’’  so  runs  the  modern  creed — 

The  starving  suicide  is  praised  and  sainted  for  the  deed  I 

THE  PARTING  FROM  IRELAND. 

L 

Oh  ! dread  Lord  of  heaven  and  earth ! hard  and  sad  it  is 
to  go 

From  the  land  I loved  and  cherish’d  into  outward  gloom 
and  woe ; 

Was  it  for  this,  Guardian  Angel ! when  to  manly  years  I 
came, 

Homeward,  as  a light,  you  led  me — light  that  now  is  turn’d 
to  flame  ? 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


107 


H. 

I am  as  a shipwreck’d  sailor,  by  one  wave  flung  on  the  shore, 

By  the  next  torn  struggling  seaward,  without  hope  for- 
evermore ; 

I am  as  a sinner  toiling  onward  to  the  Redemption  Hill — 

By  the  rising  sands  environ’d,  by  siroccos  baffled  still. 

in. 

How  I loved  this  nation  ye  know,  gentle  friends,  who  share 
my  fate — 

And  you  too,  heroic  comrades,  loaded  with  the  fetter’s 
weight — 

How  I coveted  all  knowledge  that  might  raise  her  name  with 
men — 

How  I sought  her  secret  beauties  with  an  all-insatiate  ken. 


IV. 

Hod!  it  is  a maddening  prospect  thus  to  see  this  storied 
land 

Like  some  wretched  culprit  writhing  in  a strong  avenger’s 
hand — 

Kneeling,  foaming,  weeping,  shrieking,  woman-weak  and 
woman-loud — 

Better,  better,  Mother  Ireland!  we  had  laid  you  in  your 
shroud ! 

v. 

If  an  end  were  made,  and  nobly,  of  this  old  centennial  feud — 

If,  in  arms  outnumbered,  beaten,  less,  O Ireland!  had  I 
rued  ; 

For  the  scatter’d  sparks  of  valor  might  relight  thy  dark- 
ness yet, 

And  thy  long  chain  of  Resistance  to  the  Future  had  been 

kjuiL 


108 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


VI. 


Now  their  castle  sits  securely  on  its  old  accursed  hill, 

And  their  motley  pirate-standard  taints  the  air  in  Ireland 


And  their  titled  paupers  clothe  them  with  the  labor  of  our 
hands, 

And  their  Saxon  greed  is  glutted  from  our  plunder’d  fathers’ 
lands. 


But  our  faith  is  all  unshaken,  though  our  present  hope  is 
gone  ; 

England’s  lease  is  not  forever — Ireland’s  warfare  is  not  done. 
God  in  heaven,  He  is  immortal — Justice  is  His  sword  and 
sign— 

If  Earth  will  not  be  our  ally,  we  have  One,  who  is  Divine. 


Though  my  eyes  no  more  may  see  thee,  island  of  my  early 
love ! 

Other  eyes  shall  see  thy  Green  Flag  flying  the  tall  hills 
above  ; 

Though  my  ears  no  more  may  listen  to  the  rivers  as  they 
flow, 

Other  ears  shall  hear  a Paean  closing  thy  long  canine  of  woe ! 


still ; 


VII. 


VIII. 


TEE  EXILE’S  DEVOTION. 


i. 


It  I forswear  the  art  divine 
Which  deifies  the  dead — 


What  comfort  then  can  I call  mine, 


What  solace  seek  instead  ? 


t 


4 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS.  1Q<J 

For,  from  my  birth,  our  country’s  fame 
Was  life  to  me  and  love, 

And  for  each  loyal  Irish  name 
Some  garland  still  I wove. 

n. 

I'd  rather  be  the  bird  that  sings 
Above  the  martyr’s  grave, 

Than  fold  in  fortune’s  cage  my  wings 
And  feel  my  soul  a slave  ; 

I’d  rather  turn  one  simple  verse 
True  to  the  Gaelic  ear, 

Than  classic  odes  I might  rehearse 
With  senates  list’ning  near. 


hi. 

Oh,  native  land ! dost  ever  mark 
When  the  world’s  din  is  drown’d, 
Betwixt  the  daylight  and  the  dark 
A wondering,  solemn  sound 
That  on  the  western  wind  is  borne 
Across  thy  dewy  breast  ? 

It  is  the  voice  of  those  who  mourn 
For  thee,  far  in  the  West? 

IV. 

For  them  and  theirs  I oft  essay 
Your  ancient  art  of  song, 

And  often  sadly  turn  away 
Deeming  my  rashness  wrong  ; 
For  well  I ween,  a loving  will 
Is  all  the  art  I own  ; 

Ah  me  ! could  love  suffice  for  skill. 
What  triumphs  I had  known  1 


- 


4 : 

HO  PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 

V. 

My  native  land ! my  native  land ! 

Live  in  my  memory  still ; 

Break  on  my  brain,  ye  surges  grand ! 

Stand  up  ! mist-cover’d  hill. 

Still  in  the  mirror  of  the  mind 
The  scenes  I love  I see  ; 

Would  I could  fly  on  the  western  wind, 
My  native  land ! to  thee. 


THE  SAINT’S  FAREWELL. 


i. 

Oh,  Aran  blest ! oh,  Aran  blest ! 

Bright  beacon  of  the  wavy  West ! 
Henceforth  through  life  long  seas  must  roll 
Between  thy  cloisters  and  my  soul. 

ii. 

Farewell,  farewell,  thou  holy  shore, 

Where  angels  walk  with  men,  once  more ! 
In  Hy,  my  lonely  hut  shall  ne’er 
Receive  such  guests  of  earth  or  air. 

in. 

Thou  Modan,  Mersenge’s  pious  son, 

Sad  is  my  heart,  and  slow  my  tongue 
To  say  farewell  to  friend  like  thee ! 

May  Christ,  our  Lord,  your  keeper  be ! 

IV. 

Far  eastward,  far  too  far,  lies  Hy, 

Darkness  is  o’er  its  morning  sky ; 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


Ill 


The  sun  loves  not  his  ancient  East, 

But  hastens  to  the  holier  West. 

v. 

Aran  ! thou  sun  of  realms  terrene, 
Would  that,  lull’d  by  thy  airs  serene, 

I slept  the  sleep  that  lasts  till  day , 
Wrapp’d  in  thy  consecrated  clay. 

VI. 

Aran,  thou  sun  ! no  tongue  may  tell 
How,  haunted  by  each  holy  bell, 

My  love,  call’d  backward  to  your  breast, 
Longs  for  its  evening  in  the  West. 


TO  MY  WISHINO-CAP. 

I. 

WismNG-cap,  Wishing-cap,  I would  be 
Far  away,  far  away  o’er  the  sea, 

Where  the  red  birch  roots 
Down  the  ribbed  rock  shoots, 

In  Donegal  the  brave, 

And  white-sail’d  skiffs 
Speckle  the  cliffs, 

And  the  gannet  drinks  the  wave. 

n. 

Wishing-cap,  Wishing-cap,  I would  he 
On  a Wicklow  hill,  and  stare  the  sky, 

Or  count  the  human  atoms  that  pass 
The  thread-like  road  through  Glenmacnass, 


112 


PA  TRIO  TIG  POEMS. 


Where  once  the  clans  of  O’Byrne  were  ; 
Or  talk  to  the  breeze 
Under  sycamore  trees, 

In  Glenart’s  forests  fair. 

m. 

Wishing-cap,  Wishing-cap,  let  us  away 
To  walk  in  the  cloisters,  at  close  of  day, 
Once  trod  by  friars  of  orders  gray, 

In  Norman  Selskar’s  renown’d  abbaye, 
And  Carmen’s  ancient  town  ; 

For  I would  kneel  at  my  mother’s  grave, 
Where  the  plumy  churchyard  elms  wave, 
And  the  old  war-walls  look  down. 


THE  SONG  OF  LABOR. 

i. 

To  the  tired  toilers’  ring, 

Brother,  bring  your  song  and  tabor  ; 

Poets  of  all  nations,  sing 

To-day  a hymn  of  praise  to  Labor. 

Chorus — “ Yiva  Labor ! long  live  Labor ! 

Strongest  sceptre ! keenest  sabre ! 
Chant  the  hymn ! strike  on  the  tabor ! 
Liegemen  ! sing  the  Song  of  Labor.” 

ii. 

GERMAN. 

On  the  German  Khine-banks  I 
Have  beheld  his  banners  fly, 

While  the  order’d  ranks  beneath 
Struck  a stroke  with  every  breath — 


PA  TRIO  TIG  P OEMS . 


L 

113 


Sledges  on  the  anvils  ringing, 

Poets  in  their  gardens  singing — 

“ Viva  Labor  ! long  live  Labor !”  etc. 

in. 

ITALIAN. 

Where  the  Arno  winding  comes, 

Under  shade  of  Florence  domes — 

Where  Genoa  rises  steep, 

Crowning  high  the  subject  deep — 

Where  live  Rome  and  dead  Rome  dwell, 

Like  corpse  in  crypt  near  sexton’s  cell — 

Through  Italia’s  storied  length, 

Skill  and  art,  surpassing  strength, 

Daily  toil  and  chant  at  even 

The  great  human  song  to  Heaven — 

“ Yiva  Labor  ! long  live  Labor!”  etc. 


IV. 

FRENCHMAN. 

Ah  ! my  France,  thy  dauntless  spirit 
Love  of  toil  doth  still  inherit, 

And  no  power  but  armed  wrong 
Ever  yet  hath  hush’d  thy  song ! 

In  the  province,  in  the  street, 

Troops  of  toilers  you  may  meet — 

Men  who  make  as  light  of  labor 
As  our  minstrel  of  his  tabor. 

“Yiva  Labor  ! long  live  Labor!”  etc 

v. 

IRISHMAN. 

Ask  not  me  for  merry  song, 

Music  flies  the  land  of  wrong  ! 


i 


114 


PATH  10 TIG  POEMS. 


t 

By  the  noble  Shannon  river, 

Wretched  land-serfs  moan  and  shiver — 

Whining  all  day  in  the  city 
Are  the  partners  Woe  and  Pity  : 

Lordlings  think  toil  don’t  beseem  them, 

Though  their  own  sweat  might  redeem  them. 

“ Viva  Labor  ! long  live  Labor !”  etc 

VI. 

AMERICAN. 

In  the  land  where  man  is  youngest, 

On  the  soil  where  nature’s  strongest, 

Come  and  see  a greater  glory 
Than  the  old  vine-bender’s  story! 

Come  and  see  the  city’s  arms 
Filling  forests  with  alarms — 

See  before  the  breath  of  steam 
Space  and  waste  fly  like  a dream. 

“ Yiva  Labor ! long  live  Labor !”  etc. 

[Written  for  the  Annual  Festival  of  the  St.  Patrick's  Literary  Association  of 
Montreal,  of  which  the  author  was  the  founder  and  first  president.] 

PROLOGUE  TO  ST.  PATRICK  AT  TARA* 

I. 

The  stranger  entering  at  yonder  door, 

Who  never  saw  our  amateurs  before, 

May  ask,  What  have  we  here  ? an  Lish  play  ? 

In  Lenten  times,  and  on  St.  Patrick’s  day  ? 

n. 

Our  answer  is,  The  very  day  inspires 

With  memories  of  the  green  land  of  our  sires  ; 


* The  drama  of  the  evening,  so  called. 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS . 


► 

116 


The  very  day  unfolds,  from  age  to  age, 

The  Christian  drama  of  that  island-stage — 

The  martyr,  hero,  scholar,  warrior,  bard, 

The  plot,  the  stake — virtue  and  its  reward  ; 

The  good  man’s  grief,  the  heartless  villain’s  gain, 
The  strong-arm’d  tyrant  righteously  slain  ; 

The  thousand  memorable  deeds  which  give 
Zest  to  the  Past,  and  make  its  actors  live  ! 

ITL 

This  day,  in  every  Irish  heart  and  brain, 

Calls  up  that  Past,  nor  does  it  call  in  vain  ; 
Surrounds  the  mental  theatre  with  all 
The  fond  embellishments  of  Tara’s  hall ; 

Seats  on  that  Meathian  mound  the  kings  of  old, 
In  flowing  vest  and  twisted  tongues  of  gold — 

A warlike  race,  to  whom  repose  was  rust, 
Mingled  of  good  and  ill,  just  and  unjust  : 

Men  much  the  same  ruled  all  the  pagan  West — 
Some  gentler,  wiser,  greater  than  the  rest  ; 

War  was  their  game,  and,  eagle-like,  they  bore 
Back  to  their  cliffs  the  spoils  of  many  a shore. 


IV. 

To  Tara  in  its  most  auspicious  day 
We  would  transport  you  in  the  coming  play  ; 

While  yet  “ the  Road  of  Chariots  ” round  its  slope, 
To  eyes  far  off,  shone  as  the  path  of  Hope  ; 

Ere  yet  its  hospitable  hearths  were  cold, 

Or  Ruin  reign’d  where  mirth  abode  of  old — 

To  Tara,  as  it  rose  upon  the  way 
Of  the  apostle,  on  that  eve  of  May 
When  first  he  kindled  the  forbidden  fire 
Of  Faith,  that  never,  never  can  expire ! 


116 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


v. 

Remote  the  time,  and  difficult  the  task 
For  which  your  kind  indulgence  here  we  ask  ; 
Yet  what  more  meet  for  this  our  Irish  play — 
Saint  Patrick’s  life  upon  Saint  Patrick’s  Day  ? 


TO  DUFFY  IN  PRISON. 

L 

Through  the  long  hours  of  the  garish  day  I toil  with  brain 
and  hand, 

In  the  silent  watches  of  the  night  I walk  the  spirit-land ; 

Our  souls  in  their  far  journeyings  want  neither  lamp  nor 
guide, 

They  need  no  passports,  wait  no  winds  upon  the  ocean  wide, 

And,  dreadful  power  of  human  will ! they  grub  out  of  the 
earth 

The  crumbled  bones  of  mighty  men,  and  give  them  second 
birth  ; 

They  travel  with  them  on  the  paths  which  through  the  world 
they  took, 

And  converse  with  them  in  the  tongues  which,  when  alive, 
they  spoke. 

n. 

One  night  I stood  with  Sarsfield  where  his  heart’s  blood  was 
outpour’d, 

On  Landen’s  plain,  in  Limerick’s  name,  he  show’d  it  with 
his  sword ; 

Ere  morn,  upon  the  Pincian  Hill,  I heard  Tir-0 wen’s  tale 

Of  the  combats,  and  the  virtues,  and  the  sorrows  of  the 
Gael. 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


117 

Since  then  I’ve  walk’d  with  Grattan’s  shade  amid  the  gothic 
gloom 

Of  Westminster’s  monkless  abbey,  forecasting  England’s 
doom, 

And  in  green  Glassnevin  I have  been  beside  the  tombs  where 
rest — 

There,  Curran,  here,  O’Connell,  on  our  mother-land’s  warm 
breast. 

m. 

’Twas  but  last  night  I traversed  the  Atlantic's  furrow’d  face — 

The  stars  but  thinly  colonized  the  wilderness  of  space — 

A white  sail  glinted  here  and  there,  and  sometimes  o’er  the 
swell 

Rung  the  seaman’s  song  of  labor,  or  the  silvery  night-watch 
bell; 

I dreamt  I reach’d  the  Irish  shore,  and  felt  my  heart  re- 
bound 

From  wall  to  wall  within  my  breast,  as  I trod  that  holy 
ground  ; 

I sat  down  by  my  own  hearth-stone,  beside  my  love  again — 

I met  my  friends  and  Him,  the  first  of  friends,  and  first  of 
Irish  men. 

IV. 

I saw  once  more  the  dome-like  brow,  the  large  and  lustrous 
eyes — 

I mark’d  upon  the  sphinx-like  face  the  clouds  of  thought 
arise — 

I heard  again  that  clear  quick  voice  that,  as  a trumpet, 
thrill’d 

The  souls  of  men,  and  wielded  them  even  as  the  speaker 
will’d— 

I felt  the  cordial-clasping  hand  that  never  feign’d  regard, 

Nor  ever  dealt  a muffled  blow,  nor  nicely  weigh’d  reward. 

1 — — 


4 


118 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


My  friend ! my  friend ! oh ! would  to  God  that  you  were 
here  with  me, 

A-watcliing  in  the  starry  West  for  Ireland’s  liberty ! 


y. 

Oh,  brothers ! I can  well  declare,  who  read  it  like  a scroll, 

What  Roman  characters  were  stamp’d  upon  that  Roman 
soul — 

The  courage,  constancy,  and  love,  the  old-time  faith  and 
truth, 

The  wisdom  of  the  sages,  the  sincerity  of  youth — 

Like  an  oak  upon  our  native  hills,  a host  might  camp  there 
under, 

Yet  it  bare  the  song-birds  in  its  core,  above  the  storm  and 
thunder  ; 

It  was  the  gentlest,  firmest  soul  that  ever,  lamp-like,  show’d 

A young  race  seeking  Freedom  up  her  misty  mountain  road. 


VI. 

You  grew  too  great,  dear  friend ! to  stand  under  a tyrant’s 
arm, 

His  tall  tow’rs  trembling  o’er  your  mines  had  fill’d  him  with 
alarm  ; 

He  was  the  lord  of  hired  hosts,  of  ill-got  wealth  well  kept, 

You  led  a generation,  and  inspired  them  while  he  slept  : 

He  woke — ye  met — and  once  again,  O Earth  and  Heaven ! 
ye  see 

Might’s  dagger  at  Right’s  throat,  Right’s  heart  beneath  his 
knee  ; 

Yea,  once  again  in  Ireland,  as  of  old  in  Calvarie, 

The  truth  is  fear’d  aAd  crucified  high  on  a felon  tree. 


VII. 

Like  a cony*-  \ from  the  flag-ship,  our  fleet  is  scatter’d  far, 

And  you,  tl  diant  admiral,  chain’d  and  imprison’d  are  ; 




PATRIOTIC  POEMS . 


Like  a royal  galley’s  precious  freight  flung  on  sea-sunder’d 
strands, 

The  diamond  wit  and  golden  worth  are  far-cast  on  the 
lands — 

And  I,  whom  most  you  loved,  am  here,  and  I can  but  indite 

My  yearnings,  and  my  heart  hopes,  and  curse  them  while  I 
write  : 

Alas ! alas ! ah ! what  are  prayers,  and  what  are  moans  or 
sighs, 

When  the  heroes  of  the  land  are  lost — of  the  land  that  will 
not  rise  ? 

vm. 

But  I swear  to  you,  dear  Charles,  by  my  honor  and  my 
faith, 

As  I hope  for  stainless  name  and  salvation  after  death, 

By  the  green  grave  of  my  mother  ’neath  Selskar’s  ruin’d 
wall, 

By  the  birth-land  of  my  mind  and  love,  of  you,  of  M , 

, all, 

That  my  days  are  dedicated  to  the  ruin  of  the  power 

That  holds  you  fast  and  libels  you  in  your  defenceless  hour  ; 

Like  an  Indian  of  the  wild  woods,  I’ll  dog  their  track  of 
slime, 

And  I’ll  shake  the  Graza-pillars  yet  of  their  godless  mammon 
shrine. 

IX. 

They  will  bring  you  in  their  manacles  beneath  their  bloody 
rag— 

They  will  chain  you  like  the  Conqueror  to  some  sea-moated 
crag — 

To  their  fiends  it  will  be  given  your  great  spirit  to  annoy — 

To  fling  falsehood  in  your  cup,  and  to  break  your  martyr- 

i°y ; 


12" 


P ATT!  10 Tit:  POEMS. 


But  you  will  bear  it  nobly,  like  Begulus  of  eld — 

The  oak  will  be  the  oak,  and  honor’d  e’en  when  fell’d  : 
Change  is  brooding  over  earth,  it  will  find  you  ’mid  the 
main, 

And,  throned  beneath  its  wings,  you’ll  reach  your  native 
land  again. 


TO  D UFFY , FREE. 

i. 

Through  long  sorrows  and  fears, 

And  past  perilous  years, 

And  darkness  and  distance, 

And  seas,  where  the  mists  dance, 

I see  a new  star ! 

Not  a comet,  or  wild  star, 

But  a radiant  and  mild  star, 

Still  shining  as  Venus, 

Still  bright’ning  like  Sirius, 

On  a night  in  July, 

Is  the  star  I descry ! 

And  though  myriads  of  miles  and  of  waves  intervene, 
Admonish’d,  I worship  the  star  I have  seen. 


ii. 

It  beams  from  the  far  cloud,  whose  wild  stormy  heaving 
Has  fill’d  all  our  souls  with  a fearful  misgiving, 

On  the  storm-waters  dark, 

Where,  half-savage  and  stark, 

Men,  with  sinew  and  shout, 

Are  seeking  about 

For  lost  stanchion  and  spar  ; 

And  that  calm,  shining  star, 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


121 


With  its  light  and  its  smile, 

Guides  their  task  and  their  toil  ; 

And  the  seekers,  anon, 

Look  that  it  shines  on  ; 

And  they  bless  still  the  good  star,  evening  and  morning, 

For  their  guide  and  their  comfort,  their  hope  and  their 
warning. 


’Tis  thy  star,  oh,  my  friend, 

That  doth  shine  and  ascend 

On  the  night  of  our  race  ; 

Thou  art  the  appointed, 

By  affliction  anointed, 

As  through  grief  cometh  grace  ; 

Born  heir  of  the  planet, 

See  now  that  you  man  it 
With  the  heroes  whose  worth 
Hath  made  this  round  earth 
A circular  shrine  ; 

For  the  sun  hath  not  shone 
On  such  work  as,  when  done, 

Will  be  thine. 

rv. 

’Tis  given  to  you 
That  work  to  renew 

Which  the  blood  of  pa£t  builders  hath  hallow’d  in  vain, 
When  their  helpers  bore  sceptres  in  France  and  in  Spain,] 
To  try  the  spliinx-task  of  our  kindred  again  ; 

Death  waits  in  the  way 
For  defeat  or  a prey, 

And  horrors  hedge  round 
The  combatting  ground 


122 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS- 


Where  Ireland,  dishonor’d,  awaiteth  the  knight 
Who  shall  conquer  for  her  both  renown  and  her  right. 
And  should  none  such  appear 
In  a day  and  a year, 

Her  ’scutcheon,  disgraced, 

Is  forever  displaced 

rom  the  midst  of  the  ancient  and  noble, 

Who,  through  time  and  through  trouble, 

In  the  cavalcade’s  rush,  in  the  locking  of  shields, 

Have  still  seen  her  banner  abroad  in  their -fields. 


v. 

The  fate  of  our  land 

God  hath  placed  in  your  hand  ; 

He  hath  made  you  to  know 
The  heart  of  your  foe, 

And  the  schemes  he  hath  plann’d  ; 
Think  well  what  you  are, 

Know  your  soul — and  your  star  ; 
Persevere — dare — 

Be  wise  and  beware — 

Seek  not  praise  from  to-day  ; 

Be  not  wiled  from  your  way 
By  visions  distracting  ; 

Heed  not  the  detracting 

Of  souls  imbecile 

Who  your  mastership  feel, 

Yet  hate  you,  as  pride  hates  the  sky -piercing  spire, 
Because  than  its  own  gaudy  dome  it  springs  higher, 

VI. 

Go  forth,  knight,  to  the  altar 
With  bold  heart  and  holy, 

And  fear  not,  nor  falter, 

But  ask,  and  ask  solely 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


123 


The  might  and  the  grace 
To  redeem  our  falVn  nation 
From  its  deep  desolation , 
And  lift  up  our  race  ; 

Let  your  vigil  be  long, 

For  prayer  maketh  strong 
The  arm  of  the  weakest, 

And  the  will  of  the  meekest, 
To  wrestle  with  wrong  ; 
Born  heir  of  the  planet, 

See  now  that  you  man  it 
With  the  heroes  whose  worth 
Hath  made  this  round  earth 
A circular  shrine  ; 

For  the  sun  hath  not  shone 
On  such  work  as,  when  done, 
Will  be  thine ! 


A VOW  AND  PRAYER .• 


i. 

Ikeland  of  the  Holy  Islands, 

Circled  round  by  misty  highlands^ 
Highlands  of  the  valleys  verdant, 
Valleys  of  the  torrents  argent, 

If  I ever  cease  to  love  thee, 

If  I ever  fail  to  serve  thee, 

May  I fall,  and  foulness  cover 
All  my  hopes  and  homestead  over  ; 
Die  a dog’s  death,  outcast,  hurried  l 
Into  earth  as  dogs  are  buried. 

* Written  on  losing  sight  of  the  Irish  shores,  1848 


124 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


n. 

Though  in  thee  each  day  of  sorrow, 
Led  unto  more  sad  to-morrow — 
Though  each  night  fell  darker,  bleaker, 
Round  my  couch,  a careworn  waker — 
If  I ever  cease  to  love  thee, 

If  I ever  fail  to  serve  thee, 

May  my  children  rise  around  me, 

Like  Acteon’s  brood,  to  hound  me, 
Over  all  life’s  future  landscape 
With  a hate  that  nothing  can  ’scape. 


in. 

Since  the  trance  of  childhood  bound  me, 

I have  felt  thy  arms  around  me  ; 

More  to  me  than  any  other 

Hast  thou  been  a nurse  and  mother  ; 

Could  I ever  cease  to  love  thee  ? 

Could  I ever  fail  to  serve  thee  ? 

Thou  whose  honied  words  forever 
Flow  before  me  like  a river, 

Vocal  ever,  ever  telling 

Of  the  source  from  whence  they’re  welling  ? 


IV. 

God  look  on  thee,  ancient  nation  ! 

God  avert  thy  desolation ! 

Oh  ! hold  fast  his  dread  evangels, 

And  he’ll  set  his  shining  angels 
As  a guard  of  glory  keeping 
Watch  about  thee,  waking,  sleeping. 
Tempt  Him  not,  and  all  thy  evils, 

And  the  ulcer-giving  devils 

Who  possess  thee,  shall  be  pow’rless, 

And  thy  joys  to  come  be  hourless. 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS . 


125 


HOME  SONNETS— ADDRESS  TO  IRELAND . 

I. 

Mother  of  soldiers ! once  there  was  a time 
When  your  sons’  swords  won  fame  in  many  a clime  ; 
When  Europe  press’d  on  France,  they  fought  alone 
For  her,  and  served  her  better  than  their  own ! 
Those  were  the  days  your  exiles  made  their  fame 
By  gallant  deeds  which  put  our  age  to  shame — 
Those  were  the  days  Cremona  city,  saved, 

Stood  to  attest  what  Irish  valor  braved ! 

When  England’s  chivalry,  sore  wounded,  fled 
Before  the  stormy  charge  O’Brien  led — 5 
When  travellers  saw  in  Ypres’  choir  display’d 
The  trophies  of  your  song-renown’d  brigade ! 

Mother  of  soldiers  ! France  was  proud  to  see 
Your  shamrock  then  twined  with  th efleur  de  lis  ! 6 

II. 

Mother  of  soldiers ! in  the  cause  of  Spain 
The  Moors  in  Oran’s  trench  by  them  were  slain  ; 7 
For  full  an  hundred  years  their  fatal  steel 
Has  charged  beside  the  lances  of  Castile. 

Carb’ry’s,  Tyrconnell’s,  Breffny’s  exiled  lords 
To  Spain  and  glory  gave  their  gallant  swords  ;8 
And  Spain,  of  honor  jealous,  gave  them  place 
Before  her  native  sons  in  glory’s  race  ; 

Her  noblest  laurels  graced  your  soldiers’  head, 

Her  dearest  daughters  shared  your  soldiers’  bed  ; 

In  danger’s  hour  she  call’d  them  to  the  front. 

And  gave  to  them  the  praise  who  bore  the  brunt ; 
Mother  of  soldiers  ! Spain  to-day  will  be 
A willing  witness  for  thy  sons  and  thee  l 


126 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


III. 

Mother  of  soldiers  ! on  the  Volga’s  banks 
Your  practised  leaders  form’d  the  Russian  ranks  ; 
And  fallen  Limerick  gave  the  chiefs  to  lead 
The  hosts  who  triumph’d  o’er  the  famous  Swed* 
That  time  even  Austria  gave  them  host  on  host, 
The  ruling  baton , and  the  perilous  post — 

Buda,  Belgrade,  Prague,  Deva — every  trv 
That  man  could  earn,  and  found  them  bold  as  just. 
Velettri,  Zorndorff,  Dantzic,  still  can  tell 
How  Austria’s  Irish  soldiers  fought  and  fell, 

And  how  the  ruling  skill  that  led  them  on 
To  conquer  was  supplied  by  your  own  son  ! 10 
Mother  of  soldiers  ! while  these  trophies  last. 
You’re  safe  against  the  sland’rers  of  the  past ! 

IV. 

Mother  of  exiles ! from  your  soil  to-day 
New  myriads  are  destroy’d  or  swept  away  ; 

The  crowded  graveyards  grow  no  longer  green, 
The  daily  dead  have  scanty  space,  I ween  ; 

The  groaning  ships,  freighted  with  want  and  grief, 
Entomb  in  every  wave  a fugitive  ; 

The  sword  no  more  an  Irish  weapon  is — 

The  spirit  of  the  land  no  longer  lives  ; 

Mother ! ’twas  kill’d  before  the  famine  came — 

The  stubble  was  prepared  to  meet  the  flame  ; 

All  manly  souls  were  from  their  bodies  torn, 

And  what  avails  it  if  the  bodies  burn  ? 

Mother  of  soldiers  ! may  we  hope  to  be 
Yet  fit  to  strike  for  vengeance  and  for  thee ! 

— — 


PAT11I0TIC  POEMS. 


127 


THE  HEART’S  RESTING-PLACE. 


I. 

Twice  have  I sail’d  the  Atlantic  o’«r, 
Twice  dwelt  an  exile  in  the  West  ; 
Twice  did  kind  nature’s  skill  restore 
The  quiet  of  my  troubled  breast — 

As  moss  upon  a rifted  tree, 

So  time  its  gentle  cloaking  did, 

But  though  the  wound  no  eye  could  see, 
Deep  in  my  heart  the  barb  was  hid. 


n. 

I felt  a weight  where’er  I went — 

I felt  a void  within  my  brain  ; 

My  day-hopes  and  my  dreams  were  blent 
With  sable  threads  of  mental  pain  ; 

My  eye  delighted  not  to  look 
On  forest  old  or  rapids  grand ; 

The  stranger’s  joy  I scarce  could  brook — 
My  heart  was  in  my  own  dear  land. 

in. 

Where’er  I turn’d,  some  emblem  still 
Boused  consciousness  upon  my  track  ; 

Some  hill  was  like  an  Irish  hill, 

Some  wild  bird’s  whistle  call’d  me  back  ; 

A sea-bound  ship  bore  off  my  peace 
Between  its  white,  cold  wings  of  woe  ; 

Oh ! if  I had  but  wings  like  these, 

Where  my  peace  went  I too  would  go. 


\ 


128 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS . 


OH!  BLAME  ME  NOT. 

I. 

Oh  ! blame  me  not  if  I love  to  dwell 
On  Erin’s  early  glory  ; 

Oh ! blame  me  not  if  too  oft  I tell 
The  same  inspiring  story  ; 

For  sure  ’tis  much  to  know  and  feel 
That  the  Race  now  rated  lowly 
Once  ruled  as  lords,  with  sceptre  of  steel, 
While  our  Island  was  yet  the  Holy. 


H. 

’Tis  much  to  know  that  our  sainted,  then, 

To  their  cloisters  the  stranger  drew, 

And  taught  the  Goth  and  Saxon  men 
All  of  heaven  the  old  earth  knew — 

When  Alfred  and  Dagobert  students  were 
In  the  sacred  “Angel’s  Yale,” 

And  harp  heard  harp  through  the  midnight  air 
Pealing  forth  the  hymns  of  the  Gael. 


m. 

*Tis  much  to  know  that  in  the  West 
The  Sun  of  our  wisdom  rose, 

And  the  barbarous  clouds  that  scarr’d  its  breast 
Were  scatter’d  like  baffled  foes — 

To  know  that  in  our  hearts  there  dwell 
Some  seeds  of  the  men  of  story  : 

Oh ! blame  me  not  if  I love  to  tell 
Of  Erin’s  ancient  glory. 


PATRIOTIC  FORMS 


3*9 


QUESTION  AND  ANSWER. 

L 

“ Young  Thinker  of  the  pallid  brow, 
What  care  weighs  on  your  brain  ? 
What  tangled  problems  solve  you  now 
Of  glory  or  of  gain  ? 

Is  that  you  seek  of  heaven  or  hell  ? 

Work  you  with  charm  or  fire  ? 

What  is  your  quest  ? what  is  your  spell  ? 
And  what  your  hope  or  hire  ?” 

H. 

“ Oh,  brilliant  is  my  quest,”  he  said, 

“ And  eminent  my  hope, 

As  any  star  that  yet  hath  shed 
Its  light  through  heaven’s  cope  ; 

I seek  to  save  mine  ancient  race — 

’Tis  knowledge  is  my  spell — 

Their  lines  of  life  and  fate  I trace, 

To  know  and  serve  them  well.7’ 

m. 

“ Their  mission — say,  what  may  it  be 
That  thus  inspires  your  toil, 

And  holds  you  back  to  native  earth 
Like  saplings  to  the  soil  ? 

I Their  mission — is’t  to  rob  and  reign 

O’er  half  the  sons  of  earth  ? 

Or  is  it  not  to  hug  the  chain, 

And  die  of  doubt  and  dearth  ?” 


130 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


IY. 

“ Oh,  no ! oh,  no !”  the  Thinker  said, 

“ Their  future  far  I see — 

Their  path  through  pleasantness  is  led, 
Their  arms  and  minds  are  free  ; 
They  walk  the  world  like  gods  of  old, 
Incensed,  enshrined,  obey’d ; 

’Tis  this  I seek,  for  this  I strive — 

My  answer  now  is  made  1” 


SONNET .o 

Not  of  the  mighty ! not  of  the  world’s  friends 
Have  I aspired  to  speak  within  these  leaves  ; 

These  best  befit  their  joyful  kindred  pens — 

My  path  lies  where  a broken  people  grieves  ; 

By  the  Ohio,  on  the  Yuba’s  banks, 

As  night  displays  her  standard  to  their  eyes, 

Alone,  in  tears,  or  gather’d  in  sad  ranks, 

Stirring  the  brooding  air  with  woful  sighs, 

I see  them  sit  : I hear  their  mingled  speech, 

G-aelic  or  Saxon,  but  all  from  the  heart ; 

“ Home  !”  is  the  word  that  sways  the  soul  of  each — 

A word  beyond  the  embellishments  of  art  : 

Yet  of  this  theme  I feebly  seek  to  sing, 

And  to  my  banish’d  kin  a book  of  “ Home  ” I bring. 

* This  appears  to  have  been  intended  by  the  author  for  the  dedication  of  an 
epic  he  was  writing,  called  “ The  Emigrants.” — Ed. 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


131 


A SALUTATION  TO  THE  FREE  FLAG  OF  AMERICA. 


I. 

Flag  of  the  Free ! I remember  me  well 

When  your  stars  in  our  dark  sky  were  shining — 
’Twas  the  season  when  men  like  the  cold  rain  fell, 

And  pour’d  into  graves  unrepining — 

’Twas  the  season  when  darkness  and  death  rode  about 
In  the  eye  of  the  day  dim  with  sorrow, 

And  the  mourner’s  son  had  scarce  strength  to  moan  out 
Ere  he  follow’d  his  sire  on  the  morrow. 

ii. 

Flag  of  the  Free ! I beheld  you  again, 

And  I bless’d  God  who  guarded  me  over — 

And  I found  in  your  shade  that  the  children  of  men 
Half  the  glory  of  Adam  recover. 

And  they  tell  me,  the  knaves ! thou  dost  typify  sin, 

That  thy  folds  fling  infection  around  them, 

That  thy  stars  are  but  spots  of  the  plague  that’s  within, 
And  which  shortly  will  raging  surround  them. 

in. 

Not  so  ! oh,  not  so  ! thou  bright  pioneer  banner ! 

Thou  art  not  what  factions  miscall  thee  ; 

Where  Humanity  is  there  must  ever  be  Honor — 

Shame  cannot  stain  let  what  else  may  befall  thee  : 
Over  Washington’s  march,  o’er  the  Macedon’s  freight 
When  flying,  the  angels  ordain’d  thee — 

“ The  Flag  of  the  Free,  the  beloved  of  Fate, 

And  the  hope  of  Mankind,”  have  they  named  thee 


132 


PA  TlilOTlG  POEMS. 


THE  ANCIENT  BAGS. 

I. 

What  shall  become  of  the  ancient  race — 

The  noble  Celtic  island  race  ? 

Like  cloud  on  cloud  o’er  the  azure  sky, 

When  winter  storms  are  loud  and  high, 

Their  dark  ships  shadow  the  ocean’s  face — 
What  shall  become  of  the  Celtic  race  ? 

n. 

What  shall  befall  the  ancient  race — 

The  poor,  unfriended,  faithful  race  ? 

Where  ploughman’s  song  made  the  hamlet  ring, 
The  village  vulture  flaps  his  wing  ; 

The  village  homes,  oh,  who  can  trace, — 

God  of  our  persecuted  race  ? 

in. 

What  shall  befall  the  ancient  race  ? 

Is  treason’s  stigma  on  their  face  ? 

Be  they  cowards  or  traitors  ? Go 
Ask  the  shade  of  England’s  foe  ; 

See  the  gems  her  crown  that  grace  ; 

They  tell  a tale  of  the  ancient  race. 

iv. 

They  tell  a tale  of  the  ancient  race — 

Of  matchless  deeds  in  danger’s  face  ; 

They  speak  of  Britain’s  glory  fed 
On  blood  of  Celt  right  bravely  shed  ; 

Of  India’s  spoil  and  Frank’s  disgrace — 

They  tell  a tale  of  the  ancient  race. 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


133 


Y. 

Then  why  cast  out  the  ancient  race  ? 

Grim  want  dwelt  with  the  ancient  race, 

And  hell-born  laws,  with  prison  jaws, 

And  greedy  lords  with  tiger  maws 
Have  swallow’d — swallow  still  apace — 

The  limbs  and  the  blood  of  the  ancient  race. 


VI. 

Will  no  one  shield  the  ancient  race  ? 

They  fly  their  fathers’  burial-place  ; 

The  proud  lords  with  the  heavy  purse — 
Their  fathers’  shame — their  people’s  curse — 
Demons  in  heart,  nobles  in  face — 

They  dig  a grave  for  the  ancient  race  ! 


VII. 

They  dig  a grave  for  the  ancient  race — 

And  grudge  that  grave  to  the  ancient  rac* — 

On  highway  side  full  oft  were  seen 
The  wild  dogs  and  the  vultures  keen 
Tug  for  the  limbs  and  gnaw  the  face 
Of  some  starved  child  of  the  ancient  race  I 

VIII. 

What  shall  befall  the  ancient  race  ? 

Shall  all  forsake  their  dear  birth-place, 

Without  one  struggle  strong  to  keep 
The  old  soil  where  their  fathers  sleep  V 
The  dearest  land  on  earth’s  wide  space — 

Why  leave  it  so,  O ancient  race  ? 

IX. 

What  shall  befall  the  ancient  race  ? 

Light  up  one  hope  for  the  ancient  race  ? 

T 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


O Priest  of  God — Soggarth  aroon  ! 
Lead  but  the  way — we’ll  go  full  soon  ; 
Is  there  a danger  we  will  not  face 
To  keep  old  homes  for  the  Irish  race  ? 

x. 


They  will  not  go,  the  ancient  race  ! 

They  must  not  go,  the  ancient  race  ! 

Come,  gallant  Celts,  and  take  your  stand — 

The  League — the  League — will  save  the  land — 
The  land  of  faith,  the  land  of  grace, 

The  land  of  Erin’s  ancient  race ! 


They  will  not  go,  the  ancient  race ! 

They  shall  not  go,  the  ancient  race  ! 

The  cry  swells  loud  from  shore  to  shore, 
From  em’rald  vale  to  mountain  hoar — 
From  altar  high  to  market-place — 

They  shall  not  go,  the  ancient  race ! 


THE  EXILE'S  REQ  UEST. 


i. 

Oh,  Pilgrim,  if  you  bring  me  from  the  far-off  lands  a sign, 
Let  it  be  some  token  still  of  the  green  old  land  once  mine  ; 
A shell  from  the  shores  of  Ireland  would  be  dearer  far  to  me 
Than  all  the  wines  of  the  Rhine  land,  or  the  art  of  Italie. 

n. 

For  I was  born  in  Ireland — I glory  in  the  name — 

I weep  for  all  her  sorrows,  I remember  well  her  fame ! 

And  still  my  heart  must  hope  that  I may  yet  repose  at  rest 
^ ^__Qn_thn_I^  my  youth,  in  the  Israel  of  the  West. 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


t 


in. 

Her  beauteous  face  is  furrow’d  with  sorrow’s  streaming  rains, 
Her  lovely  limbs  are  mangled  with  slavery’s  ancient  chains, 
Yet,  Pilgrim,  pass  not  over  with  heedless  heart  or  eye 
The  island  of  the  gifted,  and  of  men  who  knew  to  die. 


IV. 

Like  the  crater  of  a fire-mount,  all  without  is  bleak  and  bare, 
But  the  rigor  of  its  lips  still  show  what  fire  and  force  were 
there  ; 

Even  now  in  the  heaving  craters,  far  from  the  gazer’s  ken, 
The  fiery  steel  is  forging  that  will  crush  her  foes  again. 

v. 

Then,  Pilgrim,  if  you  bring  me  from  the  far-off  lands  a sign, 
Let  it  be  some  token  still  of  the  green  old  land  once  mine  ; 

A shell  from  the  shores  of  Ireland  would  be  dearer  far  to  me 
Than  all  the  wines  of  the  Rhine  land,  or  the  art  of  Italie. 


SALUTATION  TO  TEE  CELTS. 
i. 

Hail  to  our  Celtic  brethren  wherever  they  may  be, 

In  the  far  woods  of  Oregon,  or  o’er  the  Atlantic  sea — 
Whether  they  guard  the  banner  of  St.  G-eorge  in  Indian 
vales, 

Or  spread  beneath  the  nightless  North  experimental  sails — 
One  in  name  and  in  fame 
Are  the  sea-divided  Gaels. 


Though  fallen  the  state  of  Erin,  and  changed  the  Scottish 
land — 

Though  small  the  power  of  Mona,  though  unwaked  Lewel- 
lyn’s  band — 


136 


PATRIOTIC  PO RMS. 


Though  Ambrose  Merlin’s  prophecies  degenerate  to  tales, 
And  the  cloisters  of  Iona  are  bemoan’d  by  northern  gales — 
One  in  name  and  in  fame 
Are  the  sea-divided  Gaels. 

m. 

In  Northern  Spain  and  Brittany  our  brethren  also  dwell ; 
Oh  ! brave  are  the  traditions  of  their  fathers  that  they  tell 
The  eagle  and  the  crescent  in  the  dawn  of  history  pales 
Before  their  fire,  that  seldom  flags,  and  never  wholly  fails  : 
One  in  name  and  in  fame 
Are  the  sea-divided  Gaels. 


iv. 

A greeting  and  a promise  unto  them  all  we  send  ; 
Their  character  our  charter  is,  their  glory  is  our  end ; 
Their  friend  shall  be  our  friend,  our  foe  whoe’er  assails 
The  past  or  future  honors  of  the  far-dispersed  Gaels  : 
One  in  name  and  in  fame 
Are  the  sea-divided  Gaels.* 

Boston,  August  30,  1850. 


UNION  IS  STRENGTH. 


1 


I. 

A man  whose  corn  was  carried  away 
Before  his  eyes,  and  whose  oats  and  hay 
Were  piled  up  into  the  landlord’s  cart, 

Look’d  toward  his  castle  with  sorrowful  heart. 


t 


This  poem  was  published  in  the  first  number  of  the  American  Celt. 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


137 


ii. 

“ You  seem,”  said  he,  “ so  strong  and  grand, 

Like  a giant  you  overlook  the  land  ; 

And  a giant  in  stomach  you  sure  must  be, 

That  of  all  my  crop  can  leave  none  to  me.” 

iii. 

Quoth  another — “ Of  such  weak  words  what  end  ? 
Have  you  any  hope  that  the  devil  will  mend, 

Or  the  wolf  let  the  kid  escape  his  maw, 

Or  a landlord  yield  his  rights  at  law  ? 


IV. 

“ Let  us  go  over  to  Rackrent  Hall 
By  twos  and  threes — it  may  befall, 

As  wisdom  is  found  in  the  multitude, 

Enough  of  us  might  do  the  cause  some  good.” 


v. 

At  first  they  went  by  twos  and  threes, 

But  Rackrent’s  lord  they  could  not  please  ; 
And  next  they  went  in  number  a score, 

But  the  case  was  even  the  same  as  before. 


VI. 

By  fifties  and  hundreds  they  gather’d  then, 
Resolute,  patient,  dogged  men, — 

And  the  landlord  own’d  that  he  thought  there  was 
Some  slight  defects  in  the  present  laws. 


VII. 

A barony  spoke — a country  woke — 

A nation  struck  at  their  feudal  yoke — 

’Twas  found  the  Right  could  not  be  withstood, 
And — wisdom  was  found  in  the  multitude ! 


138 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


A SALUTA  TION. 

Dauntless  voyagers  who  venture  out  upon  the  wreck-paved 
deep, 

"Who  can  sail  with  hearts  unfailing  o’er  the  ages  sunk  in 
sleep  ; 

There  is  outlet — ye  shall  know  it  by  the  tide’s  deep  conscious 
flow; 

There  is  offing — may  ye  show  it  to  the  convoy  following  slow ! 

Gallant  champions,  whose  long  labors  file  away  in  vista’d 
space, 

Lost  the  fitful  hour  of  sabres — not  the  Archimedean  place  , 

In  the  future  realm  before  ye  down  the  vale  of  labor  looms 

Your  new  Athens,  oh ! pine  benders,  rear’d  above  the  rob- 
bers’ tombs. 

Be  ye  therefore  calm  in  council,  Patience  is  the  heart  of 
Hope — 

Never  wrangle  with  the  brambles  when  with  old  oaks  ye 
must  cope  ; 

"William,  "Walpole,  Pitt,  and  Canning,  ye  shall  smite  and 
overthrow, 

Not  by  practising  with  pygmies  can  ye  giant  warfare  know 

"Whoso  ye  find  fittest,  wisest,  he  your  suzerain  shall  be, 

Yield  him  following  and  affection,  stand  like  sons  around  his 
knee  ; 

Make  his  name  a word  of  honor,  make  him  feel  you  as  a 
fence, 

Trust  not  even  him  too  blindly,  build  your  faith  on  evidence. 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


139 


Brothers,  ye  have  drain’d  the  chalice  late  replenish’d  by 
defeat  ; 

(Jnto  brethren  bear  no  malice,  put  the  past  beneath  your 
feet ; 

For  the  love  of  God,  whose  creatures  ye  see  daily  crucified, 

For  your  martyrs,  for  your  teachers,  shun  the  selfish  paths 
of  pride. 

Then,  by  all  our  pure  immortals,  ye,  true  champions,  shall 
be  blest, 

By  St.  Patrick  and  St  Columb,  by  St.  Brendan  of  the  West, 

By  St.  Moiling  and  St.  Bridget,  and  our  myriad  martyr 
bands, 

And  your  land  shall  be  delivered,  yea!  delivered  by  your 
hands. 


SONNET— RETURN. 

I have  a sea-going  spirit  haunts  my  sleep, 

Not  a sad  spirit  wearisome  to  follow, 

Less  like  a tenant  of  the  mystic  deep 

Tha-n  the  good  fairy  of  the  hazel  hollow  ; 
Full  often  at  the  midwatch  of  the  night 
I see  departing  in  his  silver  bark 
This  spirit,  steering  toward  an  Eastern  light, 
Calling  me  to  him  from  the  Western  dark. 

“ Spirit !”  I ask,  “ say,  whither  bound  away  ?” 
“ Unto  the  old  Hesperides !”  he  cries. 

“ Oh,  Spirit,  take  me  in  thy  bark,  I pray.” 

“ For  thee  I came,”  he  joyfully  replies  ; 

“ Exile ! no  longer  shalt  thou  absent  mourn, 
For  I the  Spirit  am  men  call — Return.” 


HO 


PATRIOTIC  POKMR. 


DREAM  JOURNEYS. 


I. 

Signalled  by  something  in  our  dreams, 

The  ship  of  night,  swift-sided  sleep, 
Glides  out  from  all  these  alien  streams 
To  waft  us  homeward  o’er  the  deep. 

ii. 

We  lead  two  lives,  estranged,  apart, 

By  day  a life  of  toil  and  care, 

Till  darkness  comes  with  magic  art, 

And  bears  us  through  the  enchanted  air. 


m. 

How  oft  have  I not  heard  the  swell 
Of  Ocean  on  the  farther  shore ! 

Heard  Skellig-Michael’s  holy  bell, 

Or  Cleena’s  warning  off  Glandore ! 

IV. 

Rising  afar  from  Arva’s  lake 

Have  I not  heard  the  wild  swan’s  call  ? 
Or  paused,  a wayside  vow  to  make, 

By  Saint  Dachonna’s  waterfall  ? 


v. 

Before  the  dawn,  when  no  star  shined, 
Have  I not  knelt  on  Tara  hill, 

And  felt  my  bosom  glad  to  find 

The  Stone  of  Empire  11  standing  still? 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


141 


VI. 

The  sacred  strand  our  fathers’  feet 
Have  often  trod,  I nightly  view, 

The  island  of  the  Saint’s  retreat, 

Amid  the  mountains  of  Tirhugh. 

VII. 

The  field  of  fame,  the  minstrel’s  grave, 
Though  sad,  rejoicingly  I trace  ; 
From  Ara  to  the  Iccian  12  wave, 

I gather  relics  of  the  race. 


vm. 

Thus  borne  on  wings  of  woven  dreams. 
The  ship  of  night,  swift-sided  sleep, 
Finds  us  along  those  alien  streams, 

And  wafts  us  homeward  o’er  the  deep. 


NATIVE  HILLS. 

I know,  I know  each  storied  steep 
Throughout  the  land — 

Where  winds  enchanted,  love-lock’d  sleep, 
Where  teem  the  torrents  grand — 

For  them  I pine,  for  them  I weep, 

An  outcast  man,  and  bann’d. 

I see  th’  assembled  bards  of  old 
On  those  grand  hills — 

Their  music  o’er  the  upland  fold 
Like  dew  distills, 

Or  flashes  downward  bright  and  bold. 

As  cave-born  rills. 


142 


PA  TRIO  TIG  P OEMS. 


Content,  my  soul ! in  vain  you  long 
To  breathe  that  air 
Sweet  with  the  loving  breath  of  song* 
Felt  everywhere, — 

For  man  is  weak,  and  Fate  is  strong, 
Not  there ! not  there  ! 


TIME’S  TEACHINGS. 

i. 

Time  bears  a scythe  around  the  earth, 

An  hour-glass  noting  death  and  birth, 

A pouch  for  proverbs  by  his  side, 

And  scatters  broadcast,  far  and  wide, 
Truths  that  in  manly  breasts  should  ’bide, 
To  light  and  lead  them — 

Truths  to  the  shepherd-kings  once  told — 
Truths  flowing  from  the  hills  of  old, 

And  good  for  men  to  feel,  though  cold — 
And  much  we  need  them ! 


ii. 

Time  singeth  gayly  night  and  morn, 

“ The  longest  lane  must  have  a turn 
And  who  knows  lanes  like  Father  Time— 
A travelling  man  since  Adam’s  prime, 

In  every  age,  through  every  clime, 

By  moon  and  sun  ? 

My  brothers,  lay  this  “ must  ” to  heart — 
The  goal,  though  distant  from  the  start, 
To  struggle  for  is  true  man’s  part, 

Till  all  is  won. 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS.  143 

m. 

Time  chanteth  gravely  night  and  day, 

“God  never  shuts,  but  He  makes  a way  5” 

And  Time  is  God’s  own  messenger, 

His  herald  and  avenger  here — 

He  files  the  chain  and  dries  the  tear — 

Rears  tomb  and  shrine. 

And,  brethren,  shall  we  doubt  it — we ! 

That  no  road  leads  to  Liberty 
Save  by  dungeon  vault,  and  gory  tree, 

And  battle  line  ? 


rr. 

\ 

Time  hath  sung  now,  even  as  he  pass’d, 
“ Reckoning  delay’d  will  come  at  last 
And,  as  he  sung  this  holy  strain, 

I saw  the  island  once  again 
Expanded  under  seas  of  grain, 

And  saw  it  fall  as  thick  as  rain 
’Fore  yeomen  bold  ; 

And  cities,  girding  round  the  land, 

And  merchants  crowding  all  the  strand, 
And  Peace  at  Plenty’s  full  right  hand 
Upon  her  throne. 


ANOTHER  YEAR. 

1. 

Another  year  for  young  and  old, 

For  East  and  West,  is  flown  forever! 
The  tatter’d  miner  counts  his  gold 
Beside  the  yellow  Yuba  river  ; 


t 


1 


PA  TRIO  TIC  P 0 EMS. 


144 


The  senate  of  our  nation  bows 
Before  a Tartar  idol  brazen  ; 

And  lovers  in  their  Christmas  vows 
Declare  contempt  of  time  and  season. 


H. 

Europe  looms  darkly  into  day, 

Save  where  one  sudden  gleam  enlightens 
And  rolls  from  France  the  fogs  away, 

And  Order’s  horizon  now  brightens. 

The  Sultan  in  his  sage  divan 

Smiles  at  our  clam’rous  Western  frenzy 
That  styles  Kossuth  “ the  coming  man,’’ 
And  glorifies  the  new  Rienzi ! 

m. 

The  Yaderland  is  all  a dream, 

And  to  our  New  Year  nothing  germane  ; 
The  Scandinavian  Bund — a scheme 
To  stir  the  bile  of  Baltic  mermen  ; 

The  Danube  rolls  in  headlong  haste 
From  Austria’s  arm’d,  troubled  border, 
And  moans  along  the  Hungarian  waste — 

A desert  through  the  wreck  of  Order. 


IV. 

The  Cossack  trains  his  horse  and  lance, 
Smiled  on  by  the  approving  Russian, 

And,  longing,  asks  the  road  to  France, 

And  counts  the  spoil  of  Pole  and  Russian  ; 
The  Tuscan,  proud  of  Dante’s  tongue, 

Yet  thinks  the  Savoyard  his  foeman, 

While  mines  by  secret  murder  sprung, 
Explode  the  heroic  name  of  Roman ! 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


145 


v. 

Our  race — the  Celtic  race — remains — 
Limbs  of  a life  once  so  gigantic ! — 
Proscribed  upon  their  native  plains, 
Far-parted  by  the  deep  Atlantic ! 

But  heaven  for  us  has  stars  and  saints, 
And  earth  a creed,  a need,  a mission ; 
Then  let  us  hush  our  weak  complaints, 
And  mend,  like  men,  our  own  condition. 


VI. 

By  Emmet’s  death,  O’Connell’s  life, 

And  Smith  O’Brien’s  pure  endeavor, 

Let’s  quench  the  kindling  stuff  of  strife, 
And  stifle  Faction’s  voice  forever. 

Sons  of  the  brave  ! shall  we  descend 
To  spend  our  souls  in  parish  quarrels  ; 

Have  we  no  altars  to  defend, 

No  breach  to  breast  in  search  of  laurels? 

VII. 

God  in  His  goodness  gives  us  strength, 

And  time,  and  courage  to  recover  ; 

Let  us  look  forward  now  at  length, 

And  cease  to  live  the  poor  past  over. 

Let  us  from  shadowy  griefs  arise, 

Admit  the  sun — employ  the  season — 

Now  and  forever  let’s  be  wise, 

And  leal  to  God,  and  led  by  Reason. 

New  Year’s  Eve.  1851. 


146 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


+ 


AN  INVITATION  WESTWARD. 


I. 

Ye  are  weary,  O my  people,  of  your  warfare  and  your  woes, 
In  the  island  of  your  birthright  every  seed  of  sorrow  grows  ; 
Hearken  to  me,  come  unto  me,  where  your  wearied  souls 
may  rest 

And  plume  their  wings  in  peace,  in  the  forests  of  the  West. 


n. 

This  life — ah ! what  avails  it  by  which  shore  we  may  be  led 
To  the  mounds  where  lie  entrench’d  all  the  army  of  the 
dead? 

In  the  Valley  of  All  Souls,  when  the  Lord  of  judgment 
comes, 

The  Cross  shall  be  our  banner,  our  country  all  the  tombs. 


in. 

Is  it  wise  to  waste  the  present  in  a future  of  the  brain  ? 

Is  it  wise  to  cling  and  wither  under  Mammon’s  deadly  reign  ? 
If  the  spirit  of  the  toiler  is  by  daily  hate  oppress’d, 

How  shall  he  pray  to  Heaven,  as  we  do  in  the  West? 


IV. 

It  grieves  my  soul  to  say  it — to  say  to  you,  Arise ! 

To  follow  where  the  evening  star  sings  vespers  down  the 
skies  ; 

It  grieves  my  soul  to  call  you  from  the  land  you  love  the 
best — 

But  I love  Freedom  better,  and  her  home  is  now  the  West 


T 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


147 


v. 


Then,  children  of  Milesius,  from  your  house  of  death  arise, 
And  follow  where  the  evening  star  sings  vespers  to  the 
skies  ; 

Though  it  grieve  your  souls  to  part  from  the  land  you  love 
the  best, 

Fair  Freedom  will  console  you  in  the  forests  of  the  West. 


On  Lake  Erie,  September,  1852. 


O’DONNELL  OF  SPAIN. 

I. 

Let  it  be  told  in  Donegal, 

Above  the  waves  on  Swilly’s  shore, 
To  Assaroe’s  hush’d  waterfall, 

To  wreck’d  Kilbarron’s  ruin  hoar, 
That  in  the  Fatherland,  Old  Spain, 
The  race  of  Conal  rules  again. 


ii. 

Bid  those  who  doubt  the  force  of  blood, 

The  mean  philosophers  of  pride, 

Account  for  how  this  hidden  flood 
Rises  their  dictum  to  deride  ! 

Show  them  where,  spurning  every  chain, 

The  race  of  Conal  rules  again. 

m. 

Ten  ages  of  the  life  of  man 

Have  pass’d  o’er  earth  since  that  dark  day 
When,  under  James  Fitz- Jameses  ban, 

Tyrconnel’s  chieftains  sail’d  away. 

That  galley  might,  in  after  years, 

Have  sail’d  in  widow’d  Erin’s  tears. 




148 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


IV. 

Ten  ages  ! but  the  heap’d  up  woes 
Of  confiscation,  exile — all 
Could  never  quench  the  blood  of  those 
Whose  sires  were  chiefs  in  Donegal. 
Thy  hatred,  Albion,  raged  in  vain — 
The  slain  of  Erin  rise  in  Spain  1 

v. 

Let  it  be  told  from  Malm’s  waves 
To  Lough  Derg’s  penitential  strand. 
Whisper  it  o’er  the  ancient  graves — 
O’Donnell  rules  his  Fatherland  1 
Tell  it  till  every  trampled  hind 
Can  hear  Hope’s  voice  in  every  wind. 

VI. 

And  thou,  Lucena  ! fortune’s  son, 

Rest  not  too  long  upon  thy  blade, 
The  smaller  victory  is  won, 

The  greater  may  be  yet  essay’d ! 

An  hour  may  come,  shall  come,  if  thou 
Art  worthy  so  to  bind  thy  brow  I 


WISHES. 

I. 


Trough  there  the  damp  from  ocean’s  moat 
Hangs  thick  and  gray  o’er  town  and  hill, 

And  sudden  storms  drive  bark  and  boat 
Helpless  before  their  furious  will, 

Yet  would  I be 
To-day  with  thee, 

My  own  dear  native  land ! 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


149 


Though  here  the  sky  of  freedom  pours 
Its  golden  blaze  incessant  down, 

And  men  wield  their  own  sov’reign  powers, 
Unawed  by  any  monarch’s  frown, 

Yet  would  I be 
To-day  with  thee, 

My  own  dear  native  land ! 


in. 

For  what  is  wealth,  when  hearts  are  sad  ? 

And  what  can  exile’s  freedom  be  ? — 

The  freedom  of  the  harmless  mad, 

A pitied,  poor  inanity. 

Ah  ! I would  be 
To-day  with  thee, 

My  own  dear  native  land ! 

IV. 

There  is  no  home,  the  wide  world  o’er, 

Like  Ireland  to  the  Irishman  ; 

Absence,  through  all,  we  must  deplore, 

And  pine  beneath  the  exile’s  ban. 

Ah  ! I would  be 
To-day  with  thee. 

My  own  deal  native  land ! 


SONG  OF  THE  SURPLUS. 


The  oak-trees  wave  around  the  hatl, 
The  dock  and  thistle  own  the  lea, 
The  hunter  has  his  air-tight  stall, 

But  there’s  no  place  for  such  as  me  ; 


150 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


The  rabbit  burrows  in  the  hill, 

The  fox  is  scarce  begrudged  his  den, 

The  cattle  crop  the  pasture  still, 

But  our  masters  have  “ no  room  for  men.” 


n. 

Each  thing  that  lives  may  live  in  peace — 

The  browsing  beast  and  bird  of  air  ; 

No  torturers  are  train’d  for  these, 

While  man’s  life  is  a long  despair. 

The  Lady  Laura’s  eyes  are  wet 
If  her  dog  dies  beneath  her  feet  ; 

It  has  its  burial  rites — and  yet 
Our  human  griefs  no  mercy  meet. 

in. 

Well  may’st  thou  ask,  O Preacher  true, 

Of  manly  sense  and  fearless  tongue — 

Like  Israel’s  prophet,  well  may  you 

Exclaim,  “ How  long,  O Lord  ! how  long  ?” 

How  long  may  Fraud,  and  Pride,  and  Power 
Conspire  to  slay  the  immortal  soul  ? 

How  long  shall  Ireland  groan  and  cower 
Beneath  this  thrice-accursed  control  ? 

IV. 

When  shall  we  see  free  homes  abound, 

And  meet  by  street,  and  bridge,  and  stile, 

The  freeman’s  lifted  brow  unbow’d, 

As  free  from  guilt,  as  free  from  guile  ? 

The  song  of  peace,  the  hum  of  toil 
Will  flow  along  our  rivers  when  ? 

When  none  within  our  native  isle 

Shall  say,  we  have  “ no  room  for  men.” 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


151 


4- 


MIDSUMMER , 1861 


I. 

Why  standeth  the  laborer  in  the  way,  with  sunken  eyes  and 
dim? 

Is  there  no  work,  is  there  no  hope,  is  there  no  help  for  him  ? 

Why  rusteth  the  swift,  bright  sickle  that  swept  down  Saxon 
grain, 

Stuck  in  a patch  of  ragged  thatch  that  keepeth  not  out  the 
rain  ? 


ii. 

Why  lieth  the  plough  on  the  headland,  with  broken  stilt  and 
tusk  ? 

Why  gapeth  the  sun-dried  furrow  from  gray  dawn  unto  dusk  ? 
Why  cometh  no  singing  sower,  scattering  song  and  seed, 
Where  the  field-mouse  rangeth  fat  and  free  amid  his  groves 
of  weed  ? 


in. 

There  was  no  earthquake  in  the  land — the  ocean  swept  not 
here — 

Since  we  beheld  the  grateful  soil  enrich  the  waning  year  ; 

The  kind  clouds  in  the  west  are  throng,  and  hither  bring 
their  rain — 

Now,  why  is  the  laborer  lost  for  work,  and  the  land  disrobed 
of  grain  ? 

IV. 

Ask  not  the  peasant  nor  the  priest — ask  not  the  papers 
why— 

Why  would  you  shame  the  manly  cheek,  or  fill  the  feeling 
eye— 


4 


152 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


But  go  to  the  gate  of  Windsor,  and  ask  its  lady  gay 
Why  her  Irish  farm  has  gone  to  waste,  and  its  farmers  gone 
to  clay. 


v. 

Ah!  if  the  sceptre  had  a soul,  if  conscience  topp’d  the 
crown, 

We  soon  would  have  the  truth  made  plain  in  country  and  in 
town — 

Plain  as  the  ancient  mountains — plain  as  the  girdling  sea — 

That  in  the  laws  lie  all  the  cause  of  Ireland’s  misery. 

VI. 

You,  Irish  farmers,  whose  thin  ranks  are  broken  and  dis- 
may’d, 

You  know  what  spoil  is  made  of  toil,  how  all  this  woe  is 
made  ; 

The  Lady  of  Windsor  little  thinks  how  you  have  rack’d  and 
wrought 

Your  bones  and  brains  to  foster  all  that  thus  has  gone  to 
nought. 

VII. 

Little  she  knows  that  round  her  stand  a gang  of  thievish 
earls, 

Whose  founts  are  fed,  whose  wines  are  cool’d  with  tears  of 
humble  churls  ; 

Little  she  knows  that  to  their  gods  of  Bank  and  Fashion  rise 

Daily  a litany  of  groans,  and  a human  sacrifice  ! 

VIII. 

The  plough  will  rot,  the  furrow  gape,  the  worker  wait  in 
vain, 

Till  Law  and  Labor,  side  by  side,  shall  grapple  Pride  again. 


I 


I 

PATRIOTIC  POEMS.  153 

Oh,  Lady  of  Windsor,  think  betimes  that  even  the  strongest 
throne 

May  not  withstand  the  just  demand  of  Labor  for  “his  own.’’ 


IX. 

We  ask  no  shares  of  Indian  wealth,  no  spoils  of  Eastern 
shores  ; 

Kaffir  and  Dyak  still,  for  us,  may  heap  and  hide  their  stores  ; 

We  ask  not  London’s  pride  and  pomp,  nor  Yorkshire’s  iron 
arms — 

We  ask  the  law  to  guard  and  judge  the  farmers  on  their 
farms. 


x. 

The  robber  knights  are  all  around ; from  every  castle-top 

They  stretch  their  necks,  a-hungeriug  after  the  poor  man’s 
crop  : 

We  ask  that  Justice  have  her  seat  amid  the  upstack’d  corn, 

That  all  he  sowed  and  nursed  may  not  from  Labor’s  grasp 
be  torn. 

XL 

Is  this  too  much  ? Is  this  a crime  ? Let  men  and  angels 
judge. 

Hark  to  the  lords’  hired  advocate,  but  hear  us  for  the  drudge; 

Between  our  causes  let  the  state  in  lawfulness  preside, 

And  we  will  gladly  take  the  share  awarded  to  our  side. 

XII. 

Hear  us  and  judge,  while  yet  on  earth  our  fiery  race  remain ; 

“Too  late”  can  never  be  unsaid,  nor  ever  said  in  vain. 

To  the  far  West — to  God’s  own  court — already  hosts  are 
fled  ; — 

Oh  hear  and  save  the  living  left,  ere  again  “ too  late  ” be 
said ! 

— p 


4 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS, 


154 


LORD  GL—GALL’S  DREAM. 
“ A dream  which  was  not  all  a dream.” 


I. 

Lord  Gl — Gall  slept  in  “ the  House  ” last  night, 
When  a terrible  vision  oppress’d  his  sight  ; 
’Twas*not  of  Incumber’d  Estates  (’tis  said), 

Nor  the  Durham  Bull,  nor  the  hat  so  red — 

But  he  dreamt  that  a balance  he  saw  in  air, 
Above  the  broad  Curragh  of  famed  Kildare — 
That  God  and  the  landlords  both  were  there. 

ii. 

He  heard  the  recording  angel  call 
The  titled  criminals  one  and  all, 

And  the  witnesses  to  testify — 

And  he  heard  the  four  far  winds  reply  ; 

And  myriads  heap’d  on  myriads  throng 

From  unnumber’d  graves  to  denounce  the  wrong, 

And  with  their  sins  to  confront  the  strong ! 

m. 

His  lordship  scarce  could  tell  for  fear, 

Of  every  name  that  met  his  ear  ; 

But  he  saw  that  the  archangel  took 
Note  of  them  all  in  his  blackest  book — 

From  Farney  some,  and  from  Skibbereen, 

From  West  and  East  and  the  lands  between, 

Such  a skeleton  tryst  has  never  been  seen. 

IV. 

He  heard  how  Sir  George  gave  the  widow’s  mite 
As  instalment  to  a sybarite — 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


155 


He  heard  how  Lord  Dick  his  fox-hounds  fed 
With  ten  starved  cottiers’  daily  bread — 
Anon,  he  trembled  to  hear  his  own 
Name,  named  in  the  angel’s  sternest  tone, 
And  thereat,  upstarted  he  with  a groan. 


v. 

Sadly  he  paces  his  silent  hall, 

Still  muttering  over  the  name  G-l — Gall — 
And  penitent  thoughts  depress  his  head, 
But  the  grave  will  not  give  up  its  dead. 

Far,  far  away  from  their  native  Suir 
Are  scatter’d  the  bones  of  the  exiled  poor, 
But  the  angel  has  note  of  them  all,  be  sure  1 
London. 


RISE  AND  GO. 


I. 

In  the  valleys  of  New  England, 

Are  you  happy,  we  would  know  ? 

Are  you  welcome,  are  you  trusted? 

Are  you  not  ? — Then,  Rise  and  go  I 

n. 

Ye  are  toiling,  toiling  ever, 

Toss’d  like  sea-waves  to  and  fro  ; 

Up  at  sunrise,  up  at  sunset, 

Still  detested — Rise  and  go. 

in. 

You  are  merry  o’er  your  infants, 

Yet  you  tremble  as  they  grow  ; 

’Tis  the  land  makes  them  your  masters, 
Hapless  land! — Arise  and  go. 


156 


PATRIOTIC  FORMS. 


rv. 

As  ye  act,  or  as  ye  falter, 

We  will  deem  ye  men  or  no  ; 
For  the  homestead,  for  the  altar, 
Take  advice — Arise  and  go  ! 


TRY  AGAIN. 


I. 

When  the  equinoctial  blast 
Tears  the  canvas  from  the  mast, 
Does  the  sailor  stand  aghast 

To  complain? 
Nay  ; rather  through  the  storm 
You  can  mark  his  manly  form — 
Try  again. 


n. 

When  the  night-clouds  overtake 
The  hunter  in  the  brake, 

Where  the  wild  wolf  and  snake 
Have  domain, 
Does  he  fling  him  down  to  weep, 
Like  a sluggard  in  his  sleep, 

Or,  with  fearless  heart  and  leap. 
Try  again  ? 


in. 

If  friends  or  fate  should  prove 
An  overmatch  for  love, 

And  we  vainly  try  to  move 

Their  disdain, 


t 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


157 


Oh  ! who  would  then  lie  down, 
Though  friends  or  fate  should  frown — 
Who  would  not,  for  his  own, 

Try  again  ? 


IV. 

And  when  our  land  we  see 
Still  sighing  to  be  free — 

When  we  should  teach  her — we  ! 

How  to  gain 

Her  rights,  and  rise  sublime 
From  the  torture-bed  of  time, 
Why  not  ring  upon  the  chime — 
Try  again  ? 


v. 

Try  again,  thou  fallen  land, 

With  united  heart  and  hand — 

Try  with  rifle  and  with  brand, 

Though  blood  rain ! 
Try  for  the  sacred  sod 
That  valiant  men  once  trod  ; 

In  the  holy  name  of  God, 

Try  again  ! try  again  ! 


A PROFESSION. 

I. 

I’ve  thought  and  toil’d  from  boyhood’s  days, 
Not  for  gain,  nor  rank,  nor  glory, 

But  to  gather  a few  Hibernian  bays, 

And  to  master  our  island  story. 


158 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


When  friends  grew  cold,  and  the  very  sky 
Seem’d  darkly  to  deny  me, 

I pray’d  for  aid,  and,  from  on  high, 

The  patriot’s  star  drew  nigh  me. 

n. 

All  nought  to  me  is  pomp  and  wealth, 

And  the  multitude’s  hoarse  praises — 
Give  me,  O God ! but  life  and  health, 

And  the  lofty  thought  that  raises  ; 

Give  me  the  power  to  weave  a wreath — 
An  evergreen  rustic  garland, 

Which,  when  my  exile  ends  in  death, 

May  be  kept  for  me  in  a far  land. 


m. 

Or,  if  I ask  what  is  denied 
Save  to  the  elect  immortal, 

If  I may  not  merit  a niche  inside, 

Let  me  lodge  without  in  the  portal ; 
Let  me  be  lay-brother  to  the  bards, 
The  Muse’s  life-apprentice — 

I’ll  envy  not  their  high  awards 
While  I am  amanuensis. 


IV. 

I’ve  thought  and  toil’d  from  boyhood’s  days, 
Not  for  gain,  nor  rank,  nor  glory, 

But  to  gather  a few  Hibernian  bays, 

And  to  master  our  island  story. 

When  friends  grew  cold,  and  the  very  sky 
Seem’d  darkly  to  deny  me, 

I pray’d  for  aid,  and,  from  on  high, 

The  patriot  star  drew  nigh  me. 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


159 


AM  I REMEMBER'D. 

l. 

Am  I remember’d  in  Erin — 

I charge  you,  speak  me  true — 

Has  my  name  a sound,  a meaning 
In  the  scenes  my  boyhood  knew  ? 
Does  the  heart  of  the  Mother  ever 
Recall  her  exile’s  name  ? 

For  to  be  forgot  in  Erin, 

And  on  earth,  is  all  the  same. 

n. 

0 Mother  ! Mother  Erin  ! 

Many  sons  your  age  hath  seen — 
Many  gifted,  constant  lovers 

Since  your  mantle  first  was  green. 
Then  how  may  I hope  to  cherish 
The  dream  that  I could  be 
In  your  crowded  memory  number’d 
With  that  palm-crown’d  companie  ? 

m. 

Yet  faint  and  far,  my  Mother, 

As  the  hope  shines  on  my  sight, 

1 cannot  choose  but  watch  it 

Till  my  eyes  have  lost  their  light ; 
For  never  among  your  brightest, 

And  never  among  your  best, 

Was  heart  more  true  to  Erin 
Than  beats  within  my  breast. 


160 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


A FRAGMENT. 


I. 

I would  not  die  with  my  work  undone, 

My  quest  unfound,  my  goal  unwon, 

Though  life  were  a load  of  lead  ; 

Ah  ! rather  I’d  bear  it,  day  on  day, 

Till  bone  and  blood  were  worn  away, 

And  Hope  in  Faith’s  lap  lay  dead. 

ii. 

I dream’d  a dream  when  the  woods  were  green, 
And  my  April  heart  made  an  April  scene, 

In  the  far,  far  distant  land, 

That  even  I might  something  do 

That  should  keep  my  memory  for  the  true, 

And  my  name  from  the  spoiler’s  hand. 


FREEDOM'S  JOURNEY. 


I. 

Freedom  ! a nursling  of  the  North, 

Hock’d  in  the  arms  of  stormy  pines, 

On  fond  adventure  wander’d  forth 

Where  south  the  sun  superbly  shines  ; 

The  prospect  shone  so  bright  and  fair. 

She  dreamt  her  home  was  there,  was  there. 


n. 

She  lodged  ’neath  many  a gilded  roof, 
They  gave  her  praise  in  many  a hall, 


PA  TRIO  TIC  POEMS. 


161 


Their  kindness  check’d  the  free  reproof, 

Her  heart  dictated  to  let  fall  ; 

She  heard  the  Negro’s  helpless  prayer, 
And  felt  her  home  could  not  be  there. 

hi. 

She  sought  through  rich  savannas  green, 

And  in  the  proud  palmetto  grove, 

But  where  her  altar  should  have  been 
She  found  nor  liberty  nor  love  ; 

A cloud  came  o’er  her  forhead  fair, 

She  found  no  shrine  to  Freedom  there. 


IT. 

Back  to  her  native  scenes  she  turn’d, 

Back  to  the  hardy,  kindly  North, 

Where  bright  aloft  the  pole-star  burn’d, 

WTiere  stood  her  shrine  by  every  hearth  ; 

“ Back  to  the  North  I will  repair,” 

The  goddess  cried ; “ my  home  is  there  1” 


ALONG  TEE  LINE. 
A.  D.  1812. 


I. 

Steady  be  your  beacon’s  blaze 

Along  the  line ! along  the  line ! 
Freely  sing  dear  Freedom’s  praise 

Along  the  line ! along  the  line  ! 
Let  the  only  sword  you  draw 
Bear  the  legend  of  the  law, 

Wield  it  less  to  strike  than  awe 

Along  the  line ! along  the  line ! 


162 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


Let  them  rail  against  the  North* 

Beyond  the  line  ! beyond  the  line ! 
When  it  sends  its  heroes  forth 

Along  the  line  ! along  the  line  ! 

On  the  field  or  in  the  camp 
They  shall  tremble  at  your  tramp, 

Men  of  the  old  Norman  stamp, 

Along  the  line  ! alohg  the  line ! 


Wealth  and  pride  may  rear  their  crests, 

Beyond  the  line  ! beyond  the  line  ! 

They  bring  no  terror  to  our  breasts, 

Along  the  line  ! along  the  line  I 
We  have  never  bought  or  sold 
Afric’s  sons  with  Mexic’s  gold, 

Conscience  arms  the  free  and  bold, 

Along  the  line  ! along  the  line ! 

IV. 

Steadfast  stand,  and  sleepless  ward, 

Along  the  line ! along  the  line ! 

Great  the  treasures  that  you  guard 

Along  the  line  ! along  the  line  ! 

By  the  babes  whose  sons  shall  be 
Crown’d  in  far  futurity 
With  the  laurels  of  the  free, 

Stand  your  guard  along  the  line  ! 

* It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  these  verses  were  written  after  the  author’s 
removal  to  Canada. — Eh). 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


163 


ARM  A ND  R1SEI 

I. 

Arm  and  rise  ! no  more  repining. 

See,  the  glorious  sun  is  shining — 

What  a world  that  sun  beholds  * 
White  ships  glancing  o’er  the  ocean, 

All  earth’s  tides,  too,  in  swift  motion, 
Pouring  onward  to  their  goals. 

n. 

’Tis  no  life  for  sighing,  dreaming — 

Read  the  riddle — full  of  meaning — 

Written  on  your  own  broad  palm  ; 
For  this  needs  no  gipsy  guesses, 

Here  the  line  that  curses,  blesses — 

Say,  I shall  be — say,  I am  ! 

in. 

You  have  borne  the  parting  trial — 

Dare  the  rest ; let  no  denial 

Daunt  your  hope  at  Fortune’s  door  ; 
See,  a new  world  waits  your  wooing, 
Courage  is  the  soul  of  sueing — 

All  things  yield  the  brave  before. 


IV. 

One  tear  to  the  recollections 
Of  our  happy  young  affections, 

One  prayer  for  the  ancestral  dead, 

Then  right  on  ; the  sun  is  shining, 

No  more  doubting  or  repining, 

Firm’s  the  path  on  which  we  tread, 

r 


164 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


In  the  forest  stands  the  castle, 

Silent,  gloomy,  bell  nor  wassail 

Echoes  through  its  sable  halls  ; 

Night  and  Chaos  guard  its  portals, 

They  shall  bow  even  to  us  mortals — 

Strike  ! and  down  their  standard  falls. 

VT. 

On  the  round  Canadian  cedars 
Legends  high  await  but  readers — 

From  the  oaks  charm’d  shields  depend  ; 
Strike  ! thou  true  and  only  champion, 

Lord  of  the  first  land  you  camp  on ! 

Strike  ! and  win  your  crown,  my  friend  I 

VII. 

Crowns — ay,  golden,  jewel’d,  glorious — 
Hang  in  reach  before  and  o’er  us — 
Sovereign  manhood’s  lawful  prize  ; 

He  who  bears  a founder’s  spirit 
To  the  forest,  shall  inherit 

All  its  rights  and  royalties. 


AN  INTERNATIONAL  SONG. 

Chorus. — Comrades ! awhile  suspend  your  glee, 
And  fill  your  glasses  solemnly — 

I give  the  Brave  Man’s  Memory. 


There  is  one  Brotherhood  on  earth, 
Whereto  brave  men  belong  by  birth, 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


165 


+ 


And  he  who  will  not  honor  one, 

Wherever  found,  himself  is  none — 

Comrades ! awhile,  etc. 


n. 

Where’er  they  fought,  howe’er  they  fell, 

The  question  is — Was’t  ill  or  well ; 

Victors  or  vanquish’d,  did  they  stand 
True  to  the  flag  they  had  in  hand  ? 

Comrades ! awhile,  etc. 
in. 

What!  shall  we,  then,  at  Waterloo 
Deny  to  either  honor  due  ? 

Belie  the  hero  of  the  day, 

Or  grudge  the  fame  of  gallant  Ney  ? 

Comrades ! awhile,  etc. 

IV. 

Who  looks  on  Abram’s  storied  plain 
May  honor  most  one  hero’s  name  ; 

But  we  conjure  to-night  the  three — 

Here’s  Wolfe,  Montcalm,  Montgomery ! 

Comrades!  awhile,  etc. 


a 


IRISH 

HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 


THE  HARP  OF  KINO  BRIAN. 


I. 

Mute  harp  of  King  Brian,  what  bard  of  these  days 
Shall  give  to  thy  cold  chords  the  spirit  of  song  ? 

Who  shall  win  thee  to  gladness,  or  tune  thee  to  praise, 

Or  rouse  thee  to  combat  with  faction  and  wrong  ? 

Cold,  cold  is  the  hand  of  the  master  who  first 
In  the  halls  of  Kinkora  thy  melody  woke, 

When  the  paean  of  conquest  triumphantly  burst, 

As  the  soul  of  the  land  pass’d  from  under  the  yoke ! 

n. 

He  sat  by  the  Shannon,  well  worthy  to  hear 

The  strains  he  gave  forth,  swift  and  strong  as  its  tide  ; 
And  his  hand,  long  familiar  with  falchion  and  spear, 
Clung  to  thee  in  grief,  and  caress’d  thee  with  pride  I 
Long,  long  will  his  clansmen  remember  the  strain — 

Now  sinking  in  sorrow,  now  madd’ning  to  rage — 

He  sang  in  the  morning  when  Mahon  was  slain, 

And  went  forth  the  war  of  his  vengeance  to  wage. 

HI. 

Nor  less  dear  to  their  hearts  was  the  king  when  the  cloud 
Of  warfare  had  broken  and  melted  away, 

When,  unarm’d  and  retired  from  the  worshipping  crowd, 
He  drew  from  the  chords  Love’s  own  exquisite  lav. 


— L 

170  HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 

In  battle  he  bore  thee  aloft  on  his  shield, 

In  peace,  too,  the  hosts  of  thy  lovers  he  led  ; 

If  his  glory  shone  first  on  the  war-cover’d  field, 

Fame’s  mellow’d  light  on  Kincora  was  shed ! 

IV. 

Mute  harp  of  King  Brian  ! Time’s  sceptre  has  pass’d 
O’er  the  high  homes  of  Erin,  and  conquer’d  them  all; 

Adare’s  royal  oak  has  gone  down  in  the  blast, 

And  the  cattle  are  housed  in  Kinkora’s  old  hall. 

But  the  muse  that  hangs  over  thy  time-stricken  fame 
May  console  thee  that  yet  there  are  left  in  the  land 

Bards  as  leal  to  thy  lord,  and  as  proud  of  his  fame 
As  any  that  ever  took  gifts  from  his  hand ! 

v. 

Yes ! the  hero  may  sleep  and  his  grave  be  unknown, 

And  Armagh,  the  fallen,  may  blush  at  his  praise — 

No  need  hath  King  Brian  of  shrine  or  of  stone 
To  live  in  the  hearts  of  the  bards  of  these  days. 

Mute  relic  of  ages  ! if  haply  thy  strains 

Still  visit  the  master  who  first  gave  thee  birth, 

Say  his  name  is  revered  with  the  holiest  names 
That  ever  won  honor  and  worship  on  earth  1 


AN  INVOCATION. 

I. 

Soul  of  my  race  ! Soul  eternal ! 

That  liveth  through  evil  and  time — 
That  twineth  still  laurels  all  vernal, 

A.g  if  more  be  tllinel 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS,  171 

Oh  hear  me,  oh  cheer  me,  be  near  me, 

Oh  guide  me  or  chide  me  alway, 

But  do  not  By  from  me  or  fear  me — 

I’m  all  clay  when  thou,  Soul,  art  away. 

n. 

My  mother  died  young ; I inherit 
For  thee  all  her  love  and  my  own  ; 

Oft  I heard  in  thy  fields  her  dead  spirit 
Sing  thy  songs  with  Eternity’s  tone. 

Friends  fled,  years  have  sped,  hopes  are  dead — 
Fruitless  tasks,  restless  age  leadeth  on — 

But  thy  smile,  free  of  guile,  hope  can  shed 
On  the  future,  from  years  that  are  gone  I 

m. 

Soul  of  my  race ! Soul  eternal ! 

Who  passeth  o’er  ocean  and  earth — 

With  thy  new  woven  garlands  so  vernal, 

To  sit  at  thy  true  lover’s  hearth — 

Oh  hear  me,  oh  cheer  me,  be  near  me, 

Oh  guide  me  or  chide  me  alway, 

But  do  not  fly  from  me  or  fear  me — 

I’m  all  clay  when  thou,  Soul,  art  away. 


ADDRESS  TO  MILESIUS . 

1. 

“ Father  Milesius  ! in  the  world  where  dwell 
All  spirits  once  of  earth,  each  one  in  place, 
If  earthward  gazing,  can  you  trace  or  tell 
— The  future  that  awaits  vour  baffled  race  ? 


T 


172 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


II. 

“ Are  we  to  pass  or  perish  in  this  sea 
Of  sorrow  coldly  compassing  us  round  ? 

Or  are  we  still  in  bonds  and  woe  to  be 

Saddest  of  men  on  earth  that  may  be  found  ? 


in. 

“ Indian,  Etruscan,  Israelite  are  gone 

Out  of  the  world  like  water  down  a steep  ; 
Man  might  deny  them,  but  that  sculptured  stone 
And  brazen  chronicle  the  record  keep. 


IV. 

“ Lost  science,  unknown  armor,  massive  piles, 

In  which  the  dwarfish  Present  stands  aghast— 
Buins  of  cities  spread  o’er  mournful  miles 
Tell  of  the  heirless  races  of  the  Past. 

v. 

“ Lost ! lost  to  earth ! it  is  the  body’s  lot 
To  be  secreted  in  its  kindred  clay: 

Father  Milesius  ! must  we  come  to  nought  ? 

Must  Innisfail  be  blotted  out  for  aye  ?” 


MILEADH-ESPAGNE.  » 
L 

Spoke  Milesius  ere  he  died — 

“ Here,  my  children,  do  not  ’bide  ; 
Bight  fruitful  is  the  land  of  Spain, 
But  here  you  may  no  more  remain. 
’Tis  written  that  your  home  shall  be 
An  island  farthest  in  the  sea  : 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS . 


173 


There  sea-monsters  freely  feed, 

There  the  eagles  mate  and  breed; 

There  the  sacred  oak  is  born — ■ 

Thence  it  looketh  forth  with  scorn 
On  the  tempest-trodden  waves, 

Crouching  in  their  shelter’d  caves. 

Where  the  pathless  forests  stand 
Interlock’d  around  the  land, 

Where  the  ocean  vapors  thicken, 

There  your  warlike  seed  shall  quicken — 

There  shall  be  the  abiding-place 
Of  your  broad  and  branching  race.” 

ii. 

Death  has  closed  the  Patriarch’s  eyes, 

Closed  his  ears  to  Scotia’s  cries  ; 

Still  the  heart  and  cold  the  brain 
Where  thoughts  grew  thick  as  summer  grain  ; 
Mute  the  lips  whose  eloquence 
Mingled  wit,  and  faith,  and  sense  ; 

Nerveless  now  the  arm  of  might 

That  thunder’d  through  the  stormy  fight. 

Well  may  there  be  bitter  grief 
For  thy  loss,  O matchless  chief ! 

Well  may  they  in  silence  mourn 
The  man  of  men  beyond  the  bourne  ; 

Well  may  flow  fond  woman’s  tears 
For  him  who  loved  them  all  his  years  ; 

Sad  and  dark  the  day  they  made 
His  grave  in  the  Gallician  shade. 
Clanna-Mileadh  may  have  many 
Arms  of  oak  and  lips  of  honey. 

But,  until  their  last  great  man, 

His  like  they  shall  not  look  upon. 


174 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS . 


III. 

Thick  and  dense  the  April  rain 
Falls  upon  the  o’erclouded  plain, 

But  the  sun  shines  out  anon, 

And  the  sudden  shower  is  gone ; 
Likewise  passeth  human  grief, 

Though  the  lost  one  be  the  chief  I 
Pass’d  the  sad  Milesian  shower 
That  fell  around  Betanzo’s  tower, 

And  in  its  halls,  and  in  its  ships, 

The  last  words  on  the  Patriarch’s  lips — 
About  a land  far  in  the  sea, 

Destined  their  fertile  home  to  be — 

Was  all  that  that  adventurous  host 
Kemember’d  of  the  chief  they  lost. 


AMERGIN’S  ANTHEM  ON  DISCOVERING  INNISFAILM 

I. 

Behold  ! behold  the  prize 
Which  westward  yonder  lies  1 
Doth  it  not  blind  your  eyes 
Like  the  sun  ? 

By  vigil  through  the  night, 

By  valor  in  the  fight, 

By  learning  to  unite 

’T  may  be  won ! ’t  may  be  won ! 
By  learning  to  unite,  ’t  may  be  won ! 

ii. 

Of  this,  in  Scythian  vales, 

Seers  told  prophetic  tales, 

Until  our  Father’s  sails 


Quick  uprose ; 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS.  175 

But  the  gods  did  him  detain 
In  the  generous  land  of  Spain, 

Where  in  peace  his  bones  remain 

With  his  foes,  with  his  foes — 

Where  in  peace  his  bones  remain  with  his  foes. 

m. 

Sad  Scotia ! mother  dear ! 

Cease  to  shed  the  mournful  tear — 

Behold  the  hour  draws  near 
He  foretold  ; 

And,  ye  men,  with  one  accord, 

Drop  the  oar  and  draw  the  sword, 

For  he  only  shall  be  lord 

Who  is  bold,  who  is  bold — 

He  only  shall  be  lord  who  is  bold ! 

IV. 

They  may  shroud  it  up  in  gloom 
Like  a spirit  in  the  tomb, 

But  we  hear  the  voice  of  doom 
As  it  cries  ; 

Let  the  cerements  be  burst, 

And  from  thy  bonds  accursed, 

Isle  of  isles,  the  fairest,  first, 

Arise ! arise ! 

Isle  of  isles,  the  fairest,  first,  arise  1 


v. 

Couch  the  oar  and  strike  the  sail, 
Ye  warriors  of  the  Gael ! 

Draw  the  sword  for  Innisfail ! 
Dash  ashore ! 


176 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS . 


With  such  a prize  to  gain, 

Who  would  sail  the  seas  again ! 
Innisfail  shall  be  our  Spain 

Evermore ! evermore  1 
Innisfail  shall  be  our  Spain  evermore ! 


THE  CELTS. 

Long,  long  ago,  beyond  the  misty  space 
Of  twice  a thousand  years, 

In  Erin  old  there  dwelt  a mighty  race, 

Taller  than  Roman  spears  ; 

Like  oaks  and  towers,  they  had  a giant  grace, 

Were  fleet  as  deers, 

With  winds  and  wave  they  made  their  ’biding-place, 
These  Western  shepherd-seers. 

Their  ocean-god  was  Man-a-nan,ls  M’Lir, 

Whose  angry  lips, 

In  their  white  foam,  full  often  would  inter 
Whole  fleets  of  ships  ; 

Cromah,16  their  day-god  and  their  thunderer, 

Made  morning  and  eclipse  ; 

Bride17  was  their  queen  of  song,  and  unto  her 
They  pray’d  with  fire-touch’d  lips. 

Great  were  their  deeds,  their  passions,  and  their  sports ; 
With  clay  and  stone 

They  piled  on  strath  and  shore  those  mystic  forts 
Not  yet  o’er  thrown  ; 

On  cairn-crown’d  hills  they  held  their  council-courts  • 
While  youths  alone, 

With  giant  dogs,  explored  the  elk  resorts, 

And  brought  them  down. 


1 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 


177 


Of  these  was  Finn,  the  father  of  the  bard 
Whose  ancient  song 

Over  the  clamor  of  all  change  is  heard, 
Sweet-voiced  aud  strong. 

Finn  once  o’ertook  Grann,  the  golden-h air’d, 

The  fleet  and  young  ; 

From  her  the  lovely,  and  from  him  the  fear’d, 

The  primal  poet  sprung. 

Ossian  ! two  thousand  years  of  mist  and  change 
Surround  thy  name — 

Thy  Finian  heroes  now  no  longer  range 
The  hills  of  fame. 

The  very  name  of  Finn  and  Gaul  sound  strange — 
Yet  thine  the  same — 

By  miscall’d  lake  and  desecrated  grange — 
Remains,  and  shall  remain  ! 

The  Druid’s  altar  and  the  Druid’s  creed 
We  scarce  can  trace, 

There  is  not  left  an  undisputed  deed 
Of  all  your  race, 

Save  your  majestic  song,  which  hath  their  speed, 
And  strength  and  grace  ; 

In  that  sole  song  they  live,  and  love,  and  bleed — 
It  bears  them  on  through  space. 

Oh,  inspired  giant ! shall  we  e’er  behold 
In  our  own  time 

One  fit  to  speak  your  spirit  on  the  wold, 

Or  seize  your  rhyme  ? 

One  pupil  of  the  past,  as  mighty  soul’d 
As  in  the  prime, 

Were  the  fond,  fair,  and  beautiful,  and  bold — 
They,  of  your  song  sublime ! 


178 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


+ 


THE  GOB  IIAN  SAER .»• 

He  stepp’d  a man  out  of  the  ways  of  men, 

And  no  one  knew  his  sept,  or  rank,  or  name — 

Like  a strong  stream  far  issuing  from  a glen 

From  some  source  unexplored,  the  master  came  ; 
Gossips  there  were  who,  wondrous  keen  of  ken, 
Surmised  that  he  should  be  a child  of  shame ! 

Others  declared  him  of  the  Druids — then 

Through  Patrick’s  labors  fall’n  from  power  and  fame. 

He  lived  apart  wrapp’d  up  in  many  plans — 

He  woo’d  not  women,  tasted  not  of  wine — 

He  shunn’d  the  sports  and  councils  of  the  clans — 

Nor  ever  knelt  at  a frequented  shrine. 

His  orisons  were  old  poetic  ranns, 

Which  the  new  Ollaves  deem’d  an  evil  sign  ; 

To  most  he  seem’d  one  of  those  pagan  Khans 
Whose  mystic  vigor  knows  no  cold  decline. 

He  was  the  builder  of  the  wondrous  towers, 

Which  tall,  and  straight,  and  exquisitely  round, 

Kise  monumental  round  the  isle  once  ours, 

Index-like,  marking  spots  of  holy  ground. 

In  gloaming  glens,  in  leafy  lowland  bowers, 

On  rivers’  banks,  these  Oloiteachs  old  abound, 

Where  Art,  enraptured,  meditates  long  hours, 

And  Science  flutters  like  a bird  spell-bound  1 

Lo ! wheresoe’er  these  pillar-towers  aspire, 

Heroes  and  holy  men  repose  below — 

The  bones  of  some  glean’d  from  the  pagan  pyre, 

Others  in  armor  lie,  as  for  a foe  : 

? ~~ 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS . 


179 


It  was  the  mighty  Master’s  life-desire 
To  chronicle  his  great  ancestors  so  ; 

What  holier  duty,  what  achievement  higher 
Kemains  to  us  than  this  he  thus  doth  show  ? 

Yet  he,  the  builder,  died  an  unknown  death ; 

His  labor  done,  no  man  beheld  him  more  ; 
’Twas  thought  his  body  faded  like  a breath, 

Or,  like  a sea-mist,  floated  off  Life’s  shore. 
Doubt  overhangs  his  fate,  and  faith,  and  birth  ; 

His  works  alone  attest  his  life  and  lore  ; 

They  are  the  only  witnesses  he  hath — 

All  else  Egyptian  darkness  covers  o’er. 

Men  call’d  him  G-oblian  Saer,  and  many  a tale 
Yet  lingers  in  the  by-ways  of  the  land 
Of  how  he  cleft  the  rock,  and  down  the  vale 
Led  the  bright  river,  child-like,  in  his  hand  ; 
Of  how  on  giant  ships  he  spread  great  sail, 

And  many  marvels  else  by  him  first  plann’d : 
But  though  these  legends  fade,  in  Innisfail 
His  name  and  towers  for  centuries  shall  stand. 


ORIGIN  OF  THE  ISLE  OF  MAN . 

Of  all  the  Celtic  gods,  I envy  most 
That  son  of  Lir, 

Who  drove  his  harness’d  dolphins  round  our  coast 
The  live-long  year, 

Follow’d  by  an  uproarious,  spouting  host, 
Deafening  to  hear. 


180 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


There  was  no  cove  so  land-shut  or  so  cozy 
But  Manan  knew ; 

No  island  e’er  so  meadowy  or  rosy 
Escaped  his  view  ; 

No  river’s  mouth  or  bed  but  his  bold  nose  he 
Would  poke  into. 

Of  the  Atlantic  realm  sole  lord  and  master, 

He  yet  controll’d 

Biscayan  shores,  where,  charged  deep  with  disaster, 

His  thunders  roll’d — 

The  Baltic  paid  him  amber  tribute  faster 
Than  Jews  take  gold. 

Yet  not  content  to  be  the  sole  sea-warden 
Beneath  the  sun, 

His  heart,  like  ancient  Pharaoh,  he  did  harden, 

(Or  Hutchinson) — 

Seizing  on  Mona  for  his  “ kitchen  garden,”  19 
Some  legends  run. 

I sometimes  doubt  (though  in  some  Manx-man’s  letter* 
’Tis  somewhere  said) 

That  Manan,  once  embarrass’d,  like  his  betters, 

By  over-trade, 

A sanctuary  for  all  future  debtors 
This  island  made. 

It  suits  not  with  the  hereditary  story 
Of  him  or  his 

To  skulk  the  sheriff,  or  the  deathless  glory 
A scrimmage  gives  ; 

Of  the  Manx  story,  as  I think  the  more,  I 
Think  less  it  is. 


I 

HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS.  181 

The  gay  god’s  better  purpose  is  to  be  seen 
Beneath  the  soil, 

Where  wind  the  corridors  from  caves  marine 
For  many  a mile  : 

From  earliest  day  ’twas  ordain’d — we  must  ween — 

A smuggling  isle. 

And,  certes,  this  usquebaugh  is  not  at  all  bad, 

Excised  or  not — 

Here’s  to  thee,  Mananan ! most  genial  old  lad  ; 

No  Piet  or  Scot 

Around  this  board  but  would  have  sorrow’d  sore  had 
You  been  forgot ! 


IRELAND  OF  THE  DRUIDS. 


A thousand  years  had  seen  the  shore 
Of  Erin  by  our  race  possess’d, 

Since  the  Milesian  galleys  bore 

From  Spain  into  the  unknown  West. 

A thousand  years,  and  every  year 
A forest  fell,  a clan  arose, 

And  “ Scots  of  Ireland”  far  and  near20 

Had  conquer’d  fame,  and  friends,  and  foes. 
Wise  laws  by  Olave  early  framed, 

And  Ogma’s  letters  spread  as  wide 
As  Scotia’s  blood,  earth’s  homage  claim’d, 

An  homage  then  by  none  denied. 


ii. 

It  was  an  island  fair  and  bland, 
Lying  within  its  blue  sea-wall, 


182 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


4 


StiU  belted  round  with  forests  grand, 
Braving  the  stormy  ocean  squall. 

The  trapper  by  the  mountain  rill 

Watch’d  for  his  prey  with  eager  eye  ; 81 
The  elk  still  walk’d  his  native  hill 
In  free  and  fearless  majesty  ; 

The  Asian  arts  as  yet  abode 
By  river-ford  and  chiefs  domain  ; 

And  Druids  to  their  thundering  god 
Gave  thanks  for  seas  of  summer  grain. 


in. 

“ The  Druids  I”  sad,  mysterious  word, 
Whence  comes  that  meaning  unexpress’d 
Which  every  Celtic  pulse  hath  stirr’d, 

Rousing  old  thoughts  in  brain  and  breast  ? 
Dear  was  the  name  to  our  first  sires — 

Dear  every  symbol  of  their  line  ; 
Awe-struck,  they  saw  their  altar-fires, 

And  deem’d  their  mystic  chants  divine. 
O’er  anger’s  heat  the  Druid’s  breath 
Pass’d  like  the  healing  southern  breeze, 
And  warriors  on  the  field  of  death 
Chanted  their  odes  in  ecstacies. 

Their  artful  creed  was  woven  round 
The  changeful  year — for  every  hour 
A spirit  and  a sense  they  found, 

A cause  of  piety  or  power. 

On  every  rock  that  drinks  the  sprey, 

On  every  hill,  in  every  wood, 

Unto  great  “ Crom,”  the  god  of  day,28 
The  Druid’s  mighty  altar  stood. 

The  wrath  of  Crom  spoke  in  the  storm, 

The  blighted  harvests  felt  his  eye  ; 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


183 


The  cooling  show’r,  the  sunshine  warm 
Answer’d  the  Druid’s  plaintive  cry. 

The  flocks,  the  flow’rs,  the  babes  unborn, 
The  warrior’s  courage — all  obey’d 
Those  elements,  whose  love  or  scorn 
The  Druid’s  prayer  removed  or  made ! 
The  crystal  wells  were  spirit-springs, 

The  mountain  lakes  were  peopled  under. 
And  in  the  grass  the  fairy  rings 
Excited  rustic  awe  and  wonder. 

Ear  down  beneath  the  western  sea 
Their  Paradise  of  Youth  was  laid  ; 23 
In  every  oak  and  hazel  tree 

They  saw  a fair,  immortal  maid ! 

Such  was  the  chain  of  hopes  and  fears 
That  bound  our  sires  a thousand  years. 

IV. 

’Twas  past  : a foreign  rumor  ran 
Along  the  peopled  eastern  shore — 

A legend  of  a God  and  Man, 

And  of  a Crown  and  Cross  he  bore. 

At  first  ’twas  like  a morning  tale 
Told  by  a dreamer,  to  a few, 

Till,  year  by  year,  among  the  Gael 
More  wide  the  circling  story  grew. 

A mingled  web  of  false  and  true, 

’Twas  pass’d  about  on  every  side  ; 

The  when  or  where  they  scarcely  knew, 

But  all  agreed  He  lived  and  died 
Far  in  the  East,  the  Crucified. 


v. 

Travellers  who  had  been  long  abroad, 
Returning,  shunn’d  the  public  sight. 


l 

184  HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 

To  serve  (’twas  said)  the  Unknown  God, 

With  harp,  and  hymn,  and  harmless  rite 
One,  bolder  than  the  rest,  essay’d 

To  spread  his  creed  on  Leinster’s  shore, 

But,  by  a tumult  sore  dismay’d, 

He  fled,  and  ventured  back  no  more. 

Palladius  like  a courier  came, 

And  spoke  and  went — or,  like  St.  John, 

To  the  broad  desert  breath’d  the  name 
Of  the  Expected,  and  was  gone — 

Leaving  to  every  pagan  seer 
The  future  full  of  doubt  and  fear. 


THE  COMING  OF  ST.  PATRICK. 

I. 

In  Antrim’s  mountain  solitude, 

Above  the  fabled  northern  sea, 

The  pagan  plain  and  Druid’s  wood, 

The  Shepherd-Saint  I dimly  see. 24 
Young  and  a slave  ! he  tends  the  flocks 
Which  spot  the  purpled  heath  around, 
And,  ’mid  the  misty  topmost  rocks, 

A secret  shrine  for  prayer  hath  found. 


n. 

There,  next  to  heaven,  he  rears  his  cross, 
And  there  at  morn,  at  noon,  and  eve, 
Kneeling  upon  the  dripping  moss, 

I see  him  pray  and  hear  him  grieve. 
The  exile  mourns  his  far-off  home, 

The  Christian  humbly  prays  for  grace  ; 
And  sometimes  from  his  heart  will  come 
A sigh  for  Erin’s  darkling  race. 


HISTORIC  A L A NR  INC  END  A R Y P OEMS. 


185 


m. 

Seven  years  I watch’d  him  work  and  pray, 
Trusting  that  still  he  might  be  free, 

Until,  one  bright  auspicious  day, 

I saw  him  seize  his  staff  and  flee. 

To  Sligo — to  the  Loire — through  Gaul — 

I saw  him  pass,  ’till  that  dread  hour 
When  “ Victor  ” came,  charged  with  his  call, 
And  moved  him  with  angelic  power. 

Along  the  umbrageous  Appenine, 

To  Rome,  his  tottering  feet  I trace  ; 

Lo  ! there  the  pontiff,  Celestine, 

Ordains  the  Apostle  of  our  race.  u 


iv. 

After  this  pilgrim-interval, 

Again  the  Shepherd-Teacher  saw 
His  Antrim  highlands  soaring  tall 
Above  the  flock-enamell’d  shaw. 

Landed  on  the  familiar  shore, 

He  seeks  to  save  his  ancient  lord, 

But,  rudely  spurn’d  from  Milcho’s  door,26 
Turneth  his  footsteps  Tara-ward, 

Still  scattering,  as  he  goes,  “ the  Word.” 


THE  CAPTIVITY  OF  ST.  PATRICK. 

I. 

Gather’d  and  perch’d  the  multitude  on  Howth’s  romantic 
rock, 

As  thick  as  o’er  the  fish-strewn  strand  the  craving  sea-birds 
flock — 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


186 

On  lofty  peak,  on  jutting  pier,  on  sea- wash’d  shelving  cliff, 
On  anchor’d  mast,  and  weedy  wreck,  and  cautious  coasting 
skiff. 

Fast  beat  their  hearts  as,  from  the  east,  advancing  one  by 
one, 

Each  well-known  prince’s  galley  swims,  gilded  by  the  sun ; , 
And  in  their  midst  King  Nial’s  prow,  a head  above  its  peers, 
Arises,  crown’d  with  captives,  and  glittering  with  spears — 
The  captives  of  Armorica,  the  spears  that  smote  the  foe 
Where  the  swift  Loire  rolls  back  before  the  ocean’s  steadfast 
flow. 

n. 

Cheer  upon  cheer,  with  endless  peal,  they  send  across  the  sea — 
The  sailor’s  hail,  the  goat-herd’s  horn,  the  voice  of  boyish  glee; 
And  beauty’s  banner,  flung  abroad,  streams  downward  to 
the  wave, 

To  welcome  home  the  well-beloved,  the  fortunate,  the  brave. 
Alas!  no  shout  responds  that  fleet,  no  thrilling  trumpets 
clang — 

The  echoes  only  answer’d  to  the  welcome  as  it  rang. 

Slow,  silent,  as  in  sorrow,  the  galleys  landward  come, 

And  every  cheek  has  whiten’d,  and  every  voice  is  dumb; 
Slow,  silent,  as  in  sorrow,  the  victors  reach  the  shore, 

And  then  they  raise  the  shriek  of  grief — “ King  Nial  is  no 
more !” 

hi. 

Oh  ! what  were  all  the  conquests  to  Erie  when  she  lost 
The  hero  of  her  heart  beloved,  her  guardian  and  her  boast. 
Sadly  she  left  ungather’d  spoils  on  Howth’s  forsaken  strand, 
And,  weeping,  bore  the  body  to  Tara,  through  the  land. 

The  very  captives  of  the  sword  forgot  their  bitter  grief 
In  this  wild  public  sorrow  for  a father  and  a chief, 

And  oft,  with  unused  accents,  repeated  o’er  and  o’er 

The  wild  words  heard  on  every  side — ■**'  King  Nial  is  no  more !” 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEOENDARY  POEMS. 


187 


IV. 

Nay,  there  was  one  who  stood  a stone  amid  the  fall  of  tears — 
Dark  Milcho,  lord  of  Dalriad,  grown  old  in  sins  and  years, 
Whose  love  of  war  was  meted  by  the  treasures  of  the  field, 
Who  counted  that  alone  well  won  which  gave  a golden  yield. 
Unmoved  he  stood ; then  gave  command  unto  his  order’d 
men, 

And  sought  his  hoarded  treasures  in  Sliemish  guarded  glen. 
With  him  go  many  captives,  fair  daughters  of  the  Rhine, 
Whose  feet  shall  ne’er  be  red  again  with  juice  of  Alsace  vine; 
And  one,  a Christian  youth,  there  is,  the  saddest  of  the  train, 
Who  grieves  to  think  he  ne’er  shall  see  the  shores  of  France 
again. 

v. 

The  captive  is  a keeper  of  sheep  on  Antrim’s  hills ; 

The  captive  is  a weeper  by  Antrim’s  icy  rills  ; 

The  captive  is  a mourner  in  the  midhours  of  the  night; 

The  captive  is  a watcher  for  the  coming  of  the  light; — 

A watcher  for  His  coming  who  is  the  light  of  men, 

A mourner  for  the  darkness  that  shadows  Sliemish  Glen — 
A weeper  for  the  sins  of  youth,  aforetime  unconfess’d, 

A keeper  of  the  passions  that  rush  through  boyhood’s  breast,' 
The  captive  is  a Shepherd,  but  his  future  flock  shall  be 
All  the  countless  generations  of  that  Garden  of  the  Sea. 


ST.  PATRICK’S  DREAM* 

i. 

Poor  is  the  pallet  he  dreams  upon, 

In  the  holy  city,  Saint  Martin’s  of  Tours  ; 
Is  it  a beam  of  the  morning  sun 

Flushes  that  face  so  pale  and  pure  ? 


188 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


Is  it  the  ray  of  a cloister  lamp  ? 

Is  it  some  chalice  jewel  bright  ? 

No ! night  and  the  cell  are  dim  and  damp — 
Here  is  nor  earthly  nor  astral  light ! 

n 

Oh,  such  a dream ! From  Foclut  wood, 
Near  the  sounding  sea  of  an  earlier  day, 
Ten  thousand  voices,  well  understood, 

Spoke ! and  the  sleeper  heard  them  say  : 

“ Hear  the  Unborn  ! by  the  hand 
Of  the  angel  Victor — swift  is  he ! 

Oh,  Patrick,  far  in  thy  Christian  land, 

Erin’s  unborn  we  send  to  thee!” 


m. 

And  then  he  dreamt  that  Saint  Victor  stood 
By  his  pallet  in  that  cell  at  Tours — 

And  the  cries  were  hush’d  in  Foclut  wood ; 

But  the  heavenly  messenger,  swift  and  sure, 
Presents  the  scroll  that  bore  their  prayer, 

In  the  speech  of  his  exile  fairly  writ — 

And  waking,  the  Saint  beheld  it  there — 

And  these  were  the  words  he  read  from  it  : 

“ Come ! holy  one,  long  preordain’d, 

For  thee  the  swans  of  Lir  are  singing  ; 
Come ! from  the  morning,  Orient-stain’d, 

Thy  Mass-bell  through  our  valleys  ringing  I 

“ Man  of  the  hooded  hosts,  arise  ! 

Physician,  lo  ! our  souls  lie  dying — 

Hear  o’er  the  seas  our  piteous  cries, 

On  thee  and  on  our  God  relying  ! 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


189 


“ Come,  powerful  youth  of  Sliemish  hill ! 

Come,  in  the  name  and  might  of  Rome ! 
Come  with  the  psalm  that  charms  from  ill — 
Cross-bearer!  Christ-preparer ! come.” 


IV. 

The  sleeper  read  ! still  doubts  arose — 

Till  to  Aurora’s  torches  red 
He  held  the  scroll — repeating  those 

Wild  suppliant  words  the  Unborn  said ! 
He  look’d  where  late  the  angel  pass’d, 
Many  the  big  drops  on  his  brow; 

His  robe  he  girt,  his  staff  he  grasp’d, 

He  only  said,  “ In  God’s  name,  Now  I” 
Montreal,  February,  1868 


ST.  PATRICK’S  FIRST  CONVERTS* 

i. 

Morn  on  the  hills  of  Innisfail ! 

The  anchor’d  mists  make  sudden  sail, 

The  sun  has  kiss’d  the  mountain  gray, 

For  ancient  friends  and  fond  are  they ! 

n. 

In  the  deep  vale,  where  osiers  verge 
The  clear  Lough  Sheeling’s  gentle  surge, 

Two  royal  sisters  doff  their  dresses, 

And,  binding  up  their  night-black  tresses, 

Fair  as  the  spirits  of  the  streams, 

Qr  Dian’s  nymphs  in  poets’  dreams, 

* The  legend  here  versified,  almost  literally,  is  one  of  the  oldest  episodes  in 
Irish  history, 


190 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


\ 

They  bathe  them  in  the  limpid  lake, 

And  mock  the  mimic  storm  they  make  I 

m. 

Scarce  had  their  sandals  clasp’d  their  feet, 

Scarce  had  they  left  their  still  retreat, 

Scarce  had  they  turn’d  their  footsteps,  when 
Strange  psalmody  pervades  the  glen  ; 

And  full  before  them  in  the  way 
There  stood  an  ancient  man  and  gray, 

Chanting  with  fervent  voice  a prayer 
That  trembled  through  the  morning  air. 

IV. 

He  was  no  Druid  of  the  wood, 

Arm’d  for  the  sacrifice  of  blood  ; 

He  was  no  poet,  vague  and  vain, 

Chanting  to  chiefs  a fulsome  strain  ; 

His  reverent  years  and  thoughtful  face 
Gave  to  his  form  the  Patriarch’s  grace  ; 

His  sacred  song  declared  that  he 
Shared  in  no  gross  idolatry ! 

v- 

“ Where  dwells  your  God  ?”  the  sisters  said  ; 

“ Where  is  His  couch  at  evening  spread  ? 

Sinks  he  with  Crom  into  the  sea, 

And  rises  from  his  bath  as  we 
Have  done  ? Is  it  his  voice  we  hear 
Thundering  above  the  buried  year  ? 

Or  doth  your  God  in  spirit  dwell 
Deep  in  the  crystal,  living  well  ? 

Or  are  the  winds  the  steeds  which  bear 
His  unseen  chariot  everywhere  ?” 


T 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS.  191 

VI. 

The  Saint  replied,  “ Oh,  nobly  born  ! 

Haply  encounter’d  here  this  morn ; 

You  ask  the  only  truth  to  know 
That  Adam’s  children  need  below  ; 

Your  quest  is  God,  like  them  of  old 
Who  found  the  gravestone  backward  roll’d 
From  where  they  left  the  Saviour  cold.” 


vn. 

Mildly  to  tell,  the  holy  man 
The  story  of  our  faith  began — 

Of  Eve,  of  Christ,  of  Calvary, 

The  baleful  and  the  healing  tree; 

Of  God’s  omnipotence  and  love, 

Of  sons  of  earth,  now  saints  above  ; 

Of  Peter  and  the  Twelve,  of  Paul, 

And  of  his  own  predestined  call. 

VIII. 

“ Not  on  the  sea,  not  on  the  shore, 

In  solemn  woods  or  tempest  roar, 
Dwelleth  the  God  that  we  adore. 

No  ! wheresoe’er  His  cross  is  raised, 
And  wheresoe’er  His  name  is  praised ; 
The  pure  life  is  His  present  sign, 

The  holy  heart  His  favorite  shrine ; 
The  old,  the  poor,  the  sorrowful, 

To  them  He  is  most  bountiful ; 

Palace  or  hovel,  land  or  sea, 

God  with  His  servants  still  will  be  !” 
******* 

IX. 

Leogaire,  the  last  of  our  pagan  kinga, 
In  terror  from  his  slumber  springs, 


192 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


For  he  had  dreamt  his  daughters  fair 
Pillars  of  fire  on  Tara  were, 

And  that  the  burning  light  thence  streaming 
Melted  the  idols  in  his  dreaming — 

And  the  dream  of  Leogaire,  our  annals  say, 
Was  fulfill’d  in  the  land  in  an  after  day. 


A LEGEND  OF  ST.  PATRICK. 

Seven  weary  years  in  bondage  the  young  Saint  Patrick  pass’d. 
Till  the  sudden  hope  came  to  him  to  break  his  bonds  at  last; 
On  the  Antrim  hills  reposing,  with  the  north  star  overhead, 
As  the  gray  dawn  was  disclosing,  “I  trust  in  God,”  he  said — 
“ My  sheep  will  find  a shepherd,  and  my  master  find  a slave, 
But  my  mother  has  no  other  hope  but  me  this  side  the 
grave.” 

Then  girding  close  his  mantle,  and  grasping  fast  his  wand, 
He  sought  the  open  ocean  through  the  by-ways  of  the  land ; 
The  berries  from  the  hedges  on  his  solitary  way, 

And  the  cresses  from  the  waters,  were  his  only  food  by  day; 
The  cold  stone  was  his  pillow,  and  the  hard  heath  was  his 
bed, 

Till,  looking  from  Benbulben,  he  saw  the  sea  outspread. 

He  saw  that  ancient  ocean,  un fathom’d  and  unbound, 

That  breaks  on  Erin’s  beaches  with  so  sorrowful  a sound  ; 
There  lay  a ship  at  Sligo  bound  up  the  Median  sea — 

“ God  save  you,  master  mariner,  will  you  give  berth  to  me  ? 

I have  no  gold  to  pay  thee,  but  Christ  will  pay  thee  yet.” 
Loud  laugh’d  that  foolish  mariner,  “Nay,  nay,  He  might 
forget !” 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


193 


“ Forget ! Oh,  not  a favor  done  to  the  humblest  one 
Of  all  His  human  kindred  can  ’scape  th’  Eternal  Son  !” 

In  vain  the  Christian  pleaded,  the  willing  sail  was  spread, 
His  voice  no  more  was  heeded  than  the  sea-birds  overhead ; 
And  as  the  vision  faded  of  that  ship  against  the  sky, 

On  the  briny  rocks  the  captive  pray’d  to  God  to  let  him  die. 

But  God,  whose  ear  is  open  to  catch  the  sparrow’s  fall, 

At  the  sobbing  of  His  servant  frown’d  along  the  waters  all ; 
The  billows  rose  in  wonder  and  smote  the  churlish  crew, 
And  around  the  ship  the  thunder  like  battle-arrows  flew; 
The  screaming  sea-fowl’s  clangor  in  Kish-corran’s  inner 
caves 

Was  hush’d  before  the  anger  of  the  tempest- trodden  waves. 

Like  an  eagle-hunted  gannet,  the  ship  drove  back  amain 
To  where  the  Christian  captive  sat  in  solitude  and  pain — 
“Come  in,”  they  cried;  “O  Christian!  we  need  your  com- 
pany, 

For  it  was  sure  your  angry  God  that  met  us  out  at  sea.” 
Then  smiled  the  gentle  heavens,  and  doff’d  their  sable  veil, 
Then  sunk  to  rest  the  breakers  and  died  away  the  gale. 

So,  sitting  by  the  pilot,  the  happy  captive  kept 

On  his  roeary  a reck’ning,  while  the  seamen  sung  or  slept. 

Before  the  winds  propitious  past  Achill,  south  by  Ara, 

The  good  ship  gliding  left  behind  Hiar-Connaught  like  an 
arrow — 

From  the  southern  bow  of  Erin  they  shoot  the  shore  of  Gaul, 
And  in  holy  Tours,  Saint  Patrick  findeth  freedom,  friends, 
and  all. 


T 


In  holy  Tours  he  findeth  home  and  altars,  friends  and  all ; 
There  matins  hail  the  morning,  sweet  bell's  to  vespers  call ; 


194 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


There’s  no  lord  to  make  him  tremble,  no  magician  to  endure, 
Nor  need  he  to  dissemble  in  the  pious  streets  of  Tours ; 

But  ever,  as  he  rises  with  the  morning’s  early  light, 

And  still  erewhile  he  sleepeth,  when  the  north  star  shines 
at  night, 

When  he  sees  the  angry  Ocean  by  the  tyrant  Tempest  trod, 
He  murmurs  in  devotion,  “ Fear  nothing!  trust  In  God  I” 


THREE  SONNETS  FOR  ST.  PATRICK'S  DAY. 

I. 

Not  yet  had  dawn’d  the  day-star  of  the  soul 
On  that  dark  isle  beyond  which  land  was  not ; 

Far  in  the  East  it  blazed,  and  in  the  South, 

And  high  above  the  Alpine  summits  stood, 

Shooting  its  rays  along  the  vales  of  Gaul ; 

Albion’s  cold  cliffs  had  felt  the  cheering  beam, 
Though  soon  eclipsed  and  lost.  Like  sinful  Eve, 
Hidden  amid  the  thickest  Eden  grove, 

Our  island-mother  knew  not  of  her  hope  ! 

Enfolded  by  the  melancholy  main, 

A sea  of  foliage  fill’d  the  eagle's  eye — 

A sea  within  a sea — one  wave-wash’d  wood, 

Save  where  some  breezy  mountain,  bare  and  brown, 
Bose  ’mid  the  verdant  desert  to  the  skies ! 

II. 

Swarming  with  life,  these  woods  gave  forth  a race 
Of  huntsmen  and  of  warriors,  whose  delight 
Was  spoil  and  havoc  ; o’er  the  Roman  w^all 
They  leap’d  like  wolves  upon  their  British  prey  ; 
Far  flash’d  their  oars  upon  the  Gallic  tide  ; 

And  in  the  Alpine  valleys  rose  the  shout 
Of  “Farrah!”  to  the  onset  upon  Rome! 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


195 


And  still,  where’er  they  dwelt,  or  sail’d,  or  camp’d, 

In  native  woods,  in  ships,  or  on  strange  shores, 
Moved  the  dread  Druid,  with  his  bloody  knife, 

And  rites  obscene  of  Bel  and  of  Astarte — 

The  fearful  brood  of  that  corrupted  will 
Which  brought  imperial  Tyre  down  to  the  dust, 
Which  conquer’d  Carthage  more  than  Scipio’s  sword, 
And  left  them  heirless  in  the  world’s  esteem ! 

III. 

Into  that  land  where  he,  wet  with  his  tears, 

Had  seven  years  eaten  of  the  bitter  bread 
Of  slavery  and  exile,  came  the  Saint 
Whose  day  we  celebrate  throughout  the  earth ! 
Before  his  mighty  words  false  gods  fell  down, 

And  prostrate  pagans,  rising  from  the  plain, 

Knew  the  true  God,  and,  knowing,  were  baptized. 
Praise  to  his  name,  the  ransom’d  Slave  who  broke 
All  other  chains,  and  set  the  bondsman  free ! 

Praise  to  his  name,  the  Husbandman  who  sow’d 
The  good  seed  over  all  that  fertile  isle ! 

Praise  to  the  Herdsman  who  into  the  fold 
Of  the  One  Shepherd  led  our  Father’s  flock, 

Whose  voice  still  calls  us  wheresoe’er  we  hide  I 
Montreal,  March  12, 1862. 


TEE  LEGEND  OF  CROAGH  PATRICK.™ 

Ask  you  why  we  repair 

Every  Lent  as  pilgrims  lowly 
To  Croagh  Patrick,  and  make  there 
Yows  to  God,  and  all  the  Holy 
Now  in  glory? 


196  HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 

True  and  plainly  I will  tell 
What  in  ancient  days  befell, 

And  sanctified  this  place 
To  th’  Apostle  of  our  race — 

Thus  the  story : 

i. 

When  Patrick  came  to  Cruachan  Eigle  first 
(Steep  the  side  is  of  that  mountain  in  Mayo), 
’Twas  girt  about  with  woods  where  the  accursed 
Plotting  Druids  still  flitted  to  and  fro — 

With  fasting  and  with  prayer  upon  the  summit, 
He  sought  his  ardent  soul  to  assoil, 

Kneeling  oyer  chasms  wall’d  as  by  a plummet, 
Treading  stony  paths  with  patient  toil. 


- 


n. 

The  gray  mists  hid  the  earth  as  day  was  ended, 

The  sea  as  with  another  sea  was  cover’d, 

When,  with  loud  shrieking  cries,  a host  of  birds  descended, 
And  over  his  anointed  head  dark  hover’d  ; 

Some  breathed  an  obscene  odor  which  appall’d  him, 

Some  utter’d  cries  that  shook  his  soul  with  fear, 

Some  with  blasphemies  distracted  and  miscall’d  him, 

Some  hiss’d  like  springing  serpents  at  his  ear. 

hi. 

The  tempted  one  went  praying  fast  and  faster, 

His  knees  seem’d  to  freeze  unto  the  stone  ; 

At  length  he  cried  aloud — “ O Lord  and  Master, 

I am  wrestling  with  a hell-host  all  alone !” 

Seizing,  then,  the  holy  bell  that  lay  before  him 
(’Twas  a gift  from  the  good  Pope  Celestine), 

Thrice  ringing  it,  he  speedily,  full  o’er  him, 

Saw  the  Lenten  moon’s  fair  face  shine. 


+ 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


197 


IV. 

Then  a choir  of  cherubs  round  the  mountain  winging, 
Lauds  and  vespers  for  the  holy  Saint  began, 

And  he,  though  soul-entranced  by  the  divinest  singing, 
Still  trembling  felt  the  feebleness  of  man. 

And  he  pray’d  three  prayers  to  God  that  blessed  even*, 
That  Slieve  Eigle  to  no  stranger  might  belong, 

That  an  Irish  death-bed  shrift  might  lead  to  heaven ; 
And  once  more  he  pray’d,  fervently  and  long — 


v. 

That,  before  the  final  Judgment-morn  had  risen, 

Ere  the  angel  of  the  trumpet  cleft  the  air, 

Ere  Christ’s  coming  should  loose  Death  from  his  long  prison. 
Ere  the  pale  horse  for  his  rider  should  prepare — 

That,  through  the  woful  scenes  Apocalyptic, 

Innisfail,  ten  thousand  thousand  fathoms  deep, 

Among  old  Ocean’s  caverns  labyrinthic, 

The  destruction  of  the  world  might  outsleep. 


Of  Patrick  this  was  the  prayer 

For  our  fathers  and  their  kindred  ; 
Hence,  as  pilgrims  we  repair 
Every  Lent  to  Cruachan  Eigle. 

But  no  more  as  such  ’tis  known 
(Croagh  Patrick  is  its  name) — 
Time  will  wear  the  very  stone — 
Ireland’s  eagles  all  have  flown  ; 

Of  things  old,  her  Faith  alone 

Stands  unconquer’d  and  the  same  1 


1.98 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


ST.  PATRICK’S  DEATH. 

[Prom  the  ancient  rhyme  called  St.  Fiech’s  Hymn.] 


To  his  own  Armagh  the  Saint’s  feet  turn'd, 

As  the  lamp  of  his  life  obscurely  burn’d, 

And  he  bade  them  make  his  dying  bed 
In  that  holy  city,  the  Church’s  head ! 

n. 

Midway,  an  angel,  at  midnight  deep, 

Came  by  the  couch  and  soothed  his  sleep ; 

It  was  Victor,  the  guardian  of  his  life. 

Who  had  led  him  safe  through  storm  and  strife. 

m. 

To  the  eyes  of  the  sleeper  that  angel  seem’d 
The  same  as  when  first  of  his  call  he  dream’d; 
By  a belt  of  fire  he  was  girt  around, 

And  he  sang  with  a strangely  solemn  sound  : 


IV. 

“ Thy  Armagh  shall  rule  in  Erie  forever, 
Praise  be  to  Christ,  the  primacy-giver ! 
Your  prayer  was  heard,  your  soul  I call, 
Prepare  for  the  end  in  the  cell  at  Saul !” 


v. 

At  Saul,  to  the  people,  St.  Tassach  said  : 

“We  shall  see  him  no  more — our  Father  is  dead  I 
People  of  Erie,  lament  not  nor  mourn — 

A mortal  has  died,  but  a Saint  is  born!” 


t 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEG  END  A R Y POEMS. 


199 


VI. 

From  far  and  near,  from  isle  and  glen, 

Came  mourning  priests  and  sorrowing  men, 

And  with  hymns  repeated,  the  sleepless  throng 
Waked  him  with  solemn  psalter  and  song. 

VII. 

Torches  like  stars  burn’d  thick  and  bright 
Round  his  tomb  for  many  a day  and  night ; 

As  the  Sun  of  Ajalon  steadfast  stood, 

So  blazed  the  Church  for  the  Chief  of  the  Rood. 

VIII. 

Our  Father,  who  lived  without  stain  or  pride, 
Now  dwells  in  his  mansion  beatified, 

With  Jesus  and  Mary  in  perpetual  morn — 

The  mortal  has  died,  the  Saint  is  born. 


ST.  BRENDAN  AND  THE  STRIFE- SOWERS 

What  time  Saint  Brendan  on  the  sea 
At  night  was  sailing, 

A spirit-voice  from  the  ship’s  lee 
Rose,  wildly  wailing, 

Crying,  “ Blessed  Brendan  ! pray  for  me 
A prayer  availing ; 

“ For  I have  been,  O Saint,  through  life, 

A sinner  ever  ; 

With  murmurings  my  course  was  rife 
As  any  river  ; 

I never  ceased  from  sowing  strife, 

Good  men  to  sever. 

— 


200 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


“ Within  our  convent’s  peaceful  wall 
Was  song  and  prime  ; 

But  I loved  never  music’s  call, 

Nor  voice  of  chime  ; 

The  Host  that  holiest  hearts  appal 
Awed  never  mine. 

“ In  chancel,  choir,  in  lonely  cell, 

On  the  sea-shore, 

The  love  of  strife,  as  a strong  spell, 

Was  evermore 

Upon  me — ’till  sore  sick  I fell, 

And  was  given  o’er. 

“ Then,  in  the  brief  hours  of  my  pain, 

To  God  I cried 

And  mourned — nor,  Father,  mourned  in  vain — 
My  strifes  and  pride — 

My  soul  departed — rent  in  twain — 

Half  justified. 

“ ’Twixt  heaven  and  hell,  in  doubt  I am, 

0 holy  Saint ! 

Oh  ! supplicate  the  bleeding  Lamb 
To  hear  my  ’plaint — 

Oh ! bless  me  with  thy  words  of  balm — 

1 faint — I faint — ” 

Saint  Brendan  seized  his  rosary, 

And  knelt  him  low 
And  pray’d,  whoso  the  soul  might  be 
That  pass’d  him  fro, 

That  God  and  Christ  His  Son  would  free 
It  from  its  woe. 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS.  201 

And  never  any  night  at  sea, 

In  his  long  sailing, 

Heard  the  Saint  after  from  the  lee 
The  Spirit’s  wailing — 

He  deem’d  it  with  the  Just  to  be, 

Through  prayer  availing. 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  EM  AN  OGEA  o 

In  the  Western  Ocean’s  waters,  where  the  sinking  sun  is  lost, 
Rises  many  a holy  cloiteach  high  o’er  many  an  island  coast, 
Bearing  bells  rung  by  the  tempest  when  the  spray  to  heaven 
is  toss’d : 

Bearing  bells  and  holy  crosses,  that  to  Arran  men  afar 
Twinkle  through  the  dawn  and  twilight,  like  the  mist- 
environ’d  star 

Hung  in  heaven  for  their  guidance,  as,  in  sooth,  such  symbols 
are. 

’Tis  a rosary  of  islands  in  the  Ocean’s  hollow  palm — 

Sites  of  faith  unchanged  by  storms,  all  unchanging  in  the 
calm, 

There  the  world-betray’d  may  hide  them,  and  the  weary 
heart  find  balm. 

Wayward  as  a hill-stream  chafing  in  a sad  fir-forest  glen, 
Lived  the  silent  student,  Eman,  among  Arran’s  holy  men, 
Sighing  still  for  far  Hy-Brasil — sight  of  fear  to  human  ken. 

Born  a chieftain,  and  predestin’d  by  his  sponsors  for  a sage, 
Eman  Oge31  had  track’d  the  sages  over  many  an  ancient  page, 
Drain’d  their  old  scholastic  vials,  nor  did  these  his  thirst 
assuage. 


Eman  n„e  moans  Young  Edward 


202 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


Thinking  thenceforth,  and  deploring,  sat  he  nightly  on  the 
strand, 

Ever  watching,  ever  sighing,  for  the  fabled  fairy  land; 

For  this  earth  he  held  it  hateful,  and  its  sons  a soulless 
band. 

’Twas  midsummer  midnight,  silence  on  the  isles  and  ocean 
lay, 

Fleets  of  sea-birds  rode  at  anchor  on  the  waveless  moon- 
bright  bay, 

To  the  moon,  across  the  waters,  stretch’d  a shining  silver 
way— 

When,  0 Christa  ! in  the  offing,  like  a ship  upon  the  sight, 

Loom’d  a land  of  dazzling  verdure,  cross’d  with  streams 
that  flash’d  like  light, 

Under  emerald  groves  whose  lustre  glorified  the  solemn 
night. 

As  the  hunter  dashes  onward  when  the  missing  prey  he 
spies, 

As  to  a gracious  mistress  the  forgiven  lover  flies, 

So,  across  the  sleeping  ocean  Eman  in  his  currach  hies. 

Nay,  he  never  noted  any  of  the  holy  island’s  signs — 

Saint  Mac  Duach’s  tall  cathedral,  or  Saint  Brecan’s  ivyed 
shrines, 

Or  the  old  Cyclopean  dwellings — for  a rarer  scene  he  pines. 

Now  he  nears  it — now  he  touches  the  gold-glittering  precious 
sand — 

Lir  of  Ocean32  is  no  miser  when  such  treasures  slip  his 
hand — 

But  ^ hence  come  these  antique  galleys  crowding  the  deserted 
strand  ? 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


203 


Tyrian  galleys,  with  white  benches,  sails  of  purple,  prows  of 
gold; 

Triremes,  such  as  carried  Caesar  to  the  British  coast  of  old; 
Serpents  that  had  borne  Yikings  southward  on  adventures 
bold; 


Gondolas,  with  glorious  jewels  sparkling  on  their  necks  of 
pride; 

Bucentaurs,  that  brought  the  Doges  to  their  Adriatic  bride; 
Frisian  hulk  and  Spanish  pinnace  lay  reposing  side  by  side ; 


Carracks,  currachs — all  the  vessels  that  the  ocean  yet  had 
borne, 

By  no  envious  foemen  captured,  by  no  tempests  toss’d  or 
torn, 

Lay  upon  that  stormless  sea-beach  all  untarnish’d  and  unworn. 


But  within  them,  or  beside  them,  crew  or  captain  saw  he 
none — 

“ Have  mankind  forever  languish’d  for  the  land  I now  have 
won  ?” 

So  said  Eman,  as  he  landed,  by  his  angel  tempted  on. 

Where  it  led  him — what  befell  him — what  he  suffer’d — who 
shall  say  ? 

One  long  year  was  pass’d  and  over — a midsummer’s  night 
and  day; 

Morning  found  him  pallid,  pulseless,  stretch’d  upon  the 
island  bay. 

Dead  he  lay : his  brow  was  calcined  like  a green  leaf  scorch’d 
in  June, 

Hollow  was  his  cheek  and  haggard,  gone  his  beaming  smile 
and  bloom — 

-Dead  he  lav,  as  if  his  spirit  had  already  faced  its  doom.  


204 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


Who  shall  wake  him  ? who  shall  care  him  ? wayward  Eman, 
stark  and  still — 

Who  will  nerve  anew  his  footsteps  to  ascend  life’s  craggy 
hill? 

Who  will  ease  his  anguish’d  bosom  ? who  restore  him  thought 
and  will  ? 

Hark ! how  softly  tolls  the  matin  from  the  top  of  yonder 
tower— 

How  it  moves  the  stark  man  ! Lo,  you ! hath  a sound  such 
magic  power  ? 

Lo,  you ! lo,  you ! Up  he  rises,  waked  and  saved ! Ah, 
blessed  hour ! 

Now  he  feels  his  brow — now  gazes  on  that  shore,  and  sky, 
and  sea — 

Now  upon  himself — and  lo,  you ! now  he  bends  to  earth  his 
knee; 

God  and  angels  hear  him  praying  on  the  sea-shore  fervently. 

THE  PRAYER  OF  EMAN  OGE. 

God  of  this  Irish  isle  ! 

Blessed  and  old, 

Wrapp’d  in  the  morning’s  smile 
In  the  sea’s  fold — 

Here,  where  Thy  saints  have  trod — 

Here,  where  they  pray’d — 

Hear  me,  O saving  God ! 

May  I be  saved  ? 

God  of  the  circling  sea ! 

Far-rolling  and  deep — 

Its  caves  are  unshut  to  Thee, 

Its  bounds  Thou  dost  keep — 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


205 


Here,  from  this  strand, 

Whence  saints  have  gone  forth — 
Father  ! I own  Thy  hand, 

Humbled  to  earth. 

God  of  this  blessed  light 
Over  me  shining ! 

On  the  wide  way  of  right 
I go,  unrepining. 

No  more  despising 
My  lot  or  my  race, 

But  toiling,  uprising, 

To  Thee  through  Thy  grace. 


THE  “WISDOM-SELLERS”  BEFORE  CHARLEMAGNE." 
MONACHUS  SAN-GALLENSIS  loquitur  .* 

“ Grandson  of  Charlemagne  ! to  tell 
Of  exiled  Learning’s  late  return, 

A task  more  grateful  never  fell 
To  one  still  drinking  at  her  urn  ; 

Of  Force,  O King! 

Too  many  sing, 

Lauding  mere  sanguinary  strength  ; 

But  Wisdom’s  praise 
Our  favor’d  days 
Have  ask’d  to  hear  at  length. 

When  he  whose  sword  and  name  you  bear 
Reign’d  unopposed  throughout  the  West, 
And  none  would  dream,  or,  dreaming,  dare 
Reject  his  high  behest — 

He  found  no  peace  nor  near  nor  far, 

No  spell  to  stay  his  swaying  mind  ; 


t 


206 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


For  Glory,  like  the  sailor’s  star, 

Still  left  her  votary  far  behind. 

The  wreck  of  Roman  art  remain’d, 

Casting  dark  lines  of  destiny  ; 

The  very  roads  they  went  proclaim’d 
The  modern  man’s  degeneracy ; 

Our  Charles  wept  like  Philip’s  son, 

For  that  Time’s  noblest  wreaths  were  won. 

“ One  morn  upon  his  throne  of  state 
Crown’d  and  sad  the  conqueror  sate. 

‘ What  stirs  without,  my  chiefs  ?’  said  he, 

‘ Do  all  things  rest  on  land  and  sea  ? 

Has  France  slept  late,  or  has  she  lost 
The  love  of  being  tempest-toss’d  ?’ 

Spake  an  old  soldier  of  his  wars, 

One  who  had  fought  in  Lombardy, 

WThose  breast,  besides,  bore  Saxon  scars — 

The  soldier-emperor’s  friend  was  he  : 

‘ O Carl ! strange  news  your  steward  bears, 

Of  merchants  in  the  mart,  who  tell, 

Standing  amidst  the  mingled  wares, 

That  they  bring  Wisdom  here  to  sell ; 

Tall  men,  though  strange,  they  seem  to  be, 

And  somewhere  from  ayont  the  sea.’ 

Quoth  Charles — ‘ ’Twere  rare  merchandise 
That,  purchased,  could  make  Paris  wise. 

Fetch  me  those  wisdom-sellers  hither — 

We  fain  would  know  their  whence  and  whither. 

“ Of  air  erect  and  full  of  grace, 

With  bearded  lip  and  arrowy  eye, 

And  signs  no  presence  could  efface 
Of  Learning’s  meek  nobility, 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


207 


The  men  appear’d.  Carl’s  iron  front 
Was  lifted  as  each  bow’d  his  head  ; 

With  words  more  gentle  than  his  wont, 

To  the  two  strangers  thus  he  said  : 

‘ Merchants,  what  is  the  tale  I hear, 

That  in  the  market-place  you  offer 
Wisdom  for  sale  ? Is  wisdom  dear  ? 

Is’t  in  the  compass  of  our  coffer  ?* 

* In  accents  such  as  seldom  broke 
The  silence  there,  Albinus  spoke  : 

‘ O Carl ! illustrious  emperor  ! 

We  are  but  strangers  on  your  shore  : 

From  Erin’s  isle,  where  every  glen 
Is  crowded  with  the  sons  of  song, 

And  every  port  with  learned  men, 

We,  venturing  without  the  throng 
(And  longing,  not  the  least,  to  see 
The  person  of  your  majesty, 

Whose  fame  has  reach’d  the  ends  of  ocean), 
Forsook  our  native  isle,  to  bear 
The  lamps  of  wisdom  everywhere, 

Our  heavenly  Master’s  work  to  do — 

And  first  we  came,  O King ! to  you  : 

In  His  dread  name,  the  Eternal  King, 
Clemens  and  I,  His  errand  bring — 

WThose  soldier  is  the  sandall’d  priest, 

Whose  empire  neither  West  nor  East — 
Whose  word  knows  neither  South  nor  North, 
Whose  footstool  is  the  subject  Earth — 

Who  holds  to-day  as  yesterday, 

O’er  age  and  space,  his  sovereign  sway — 
Whose  wisdom  in  our  books  enroll’d 
Unto  your  majesty  we  offer— 


208 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


Neither  for  guerdon  nor  for  gold 
Within  the  compass  of  your  coffer. 

On  Carnac’s  cromleach  you  have  gazed, 

And  seen  the  proud  strength  of  the  past ; 
You  saw  the  piles  the  Caesars  raised — 

Saw  Art  his  empire-cause  outlast. 

All  scenes  of  war,  all  pomps  of  peace, 
Armies  and  harvests  in  array — 

Your  longing  soul  from  sights  like  these 
To  Time  and  Art  oft  turns  away. 

Great  hosts  are  bristling  over  earth 
Like  grain  in  harvest,  till  anon 
A wintry  campaign,  or  a dearth 
Of  valor,  and  your  hosts  are  gone. 

The  soldier’s  pride  is  for  a season, 

His  day  leads  to  a silent  night  ; 

But  sov’reign  power,  inspired  by  reason, 
Creates  a world  of  life  and  light. 

We’ve  rifled  the  departed  ages, 

And  bring  their  grave-gifts  here  to-day  ; 
We  sell  the  secrets  of  the  sages — 

The  code  of  Calvary  and  Sinai. 

To  wisdom,  King ! we  set  no  measure  ; 

For  wisdom’s  price,  there  is  but  one — 

To  value  it  above  all  treasure, 

And  spend  it  freely  when  ’tis  won. 

By  every  peaceful  Gaelic  river 
The  Bookmen  have  a free  abode  ; 

They  celebrate  each  princely  giver, 

And  teach  the  arts  of  man  and  God. 

All  that  we  ask  for  all  we  bring 
Is  eager  pupils  round  our  cell, 

And  your  protection,*  might}"  King  ! 

While  in  the  realms  of  France  we  dwell.’ 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEG  END  A II Y POEMS. 


209 


“ Bow’d  the  great  king  his  lofty  head — 

‘ Be  welcome,  men  of  God  !’  he  said  ; 

‘ Choose  ye  a home,  it  shall  be  given, 

And  held  in  seignory  of  heaven.’ 

“ Grandson  of  Carl ! I need  no  more; 

The  rest  throughout  the  earth  is  known — 
How  learning,  lost  to  us  before, 

Spread  like  a sun  around  his  throne, 

Till  now,  in  Saxon  forests  dim, 

New  neophytes  their  lore-lights  trim — 

How  even  my  own  Alpine  heights 
Are  luminous  through  studious  nights — 
How  Pavia’s  learned  half  regain 
The  glory  of  the  Roman  name — 

How  mind  with  mind,  and  soul  with  soul, 
Press  onward  to  the  ancient  goal — 

How  Faith  herself  smiles  on  the  chase 
Of  Chimera  and  Reason’s  race — 

How  ‘ wisdom-sellers  ’ one  may  meet 
In  every  ship  and  every  street — 

Of  how  our  Irish  masters  rest 
In  graves  watch’d  by  the  grateful  West — 
How  more  than  war  or  sanguine  strength 
Of  Wisdom’s  praise 
Our  favor’d  days 
Have  ask’d  to  hear  at  length.” 


FLAN  SYNAN’S  GAME  OF  CHESS. 

I. 

Flan  Synan  from  the  south  had  come,  with  tributes  in  his  train 
From  the  Desmond  men  and  Thomond  men  by  fear  or  fore© 
he’d  ta’en  ; 


210  HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 

A thousand  harness’d  horses,  with  bells  to  their  harness 
triced, 

Seven  chariots  piled  with  silver  cups  and  robes  kings  only 
priced  ; 

And  boastfully,  on  captured  harps,  bards  sung  the  battle 
rann, 

And  all  agreed  there  ne’er  had  lived  a conqueror  like  Flan. 


ii. 

That  was  the  night  in  Tara ! such  singing  and  such  wine  ; 

The  morning  sun  shone  in  on  them,  but  they  said,  “ Let  it 
shine;” 

A Thomond  hostage  play’d  at  chess  against  the  royal  host, 

Who  vauntingly  to  the  southern  chief  thus  foolishly  made 
boast — 

That  he  “ to  Thurles’  Green  would  bring  his  board,  and  not 
a man 

In  all  the  south,  in  open  day,  durst  spoil  the  game  of  Flan.” 

hi. 

Bright  shines  the  sun  along  the  Suir,  and  warm  on  Thurles’ 
Green  ; 

Strange  is  the  sight  and  singular  that  there  this  day  is  seen : 

A king  and  court,  in  merry  sport,  like  boys  on  holiday, 

Have  sat  them  down  to  tables  laid,  round  which  they  laugh 
and  play. 

“ Did  I not  say,  Dalcassian  ! that  here  there  was  no  man 

Who  dare  essay,  in  open  day,  to  spoil  the  game  of  Flan  ?” 

IV. 

Smiled  gayly  the  Dalcassian,  “ Kings  have  been  check’d  ere 
now.” 

“ What  mean  you  ?”  quoth  the  monarch,  with  anger  on  his 
brow. 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS.  211 

* Here  come  some  who  can  answer !”  cried  the  other ; and 
amain 

A thousand  arm’d  Thomond-men  defiled  into  the  plain. 

“ ’Tis  our  turn  now,”  exclaim’d  the  chief,  as  here  and  there 
they  ran; 

“You’ve  lost  your  game  on  Thurles’  Green,  O boastful 
monarch  Flan !” 


LADY  G ORMLEY.™ 

A GAELIC  BALLAD. 

-I. 

She  wanders  wildly  through  the  night. 
Unhappy  Lady  Gormley ! 

And  hides  her  head  at  morning  light, 
Unhappy  Lady  Gormley ! 

No  home  has  she,  no  kindly  kin, 

But  darkness  reigneth  all  within, 

For  sorrow  is  the  child  of  sin, 

With  hapless  Lady  Gormley ! 

ii. 

What  time  she  sate  on  Tara’s  throne, 
Unhappy  Lady  Gormley ! 

Bright  jewels  sparkled  on  her  zone, 
Unhappy  Lady  Gormley ! 

But  her  fair  seeming  could  not  hide 
The  wayward  will,  the  heart  of  pride, 
The  wit  still  ready  to  deride, 

Of  scornful  Lady  Gormlev! 


212  HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 

III. 

The  daughter  of  a kingly  race 
Was  lovely  Lady  Gormley  ! 

A monarch’s  bride,  the  first  in  place, 

Was  noble  Lady  Gormley  ! 

The  fairest  hand  she  had,  the  skill 

The  lute  to  touch,  the  harp  to  thrill. 

Melting  and  moving  men  at  will, 

The  peerless  Lady  Gormley ! 

IV. 

Nor  was  it  courtly  art  to  call 

The  splendid  Lady  Gormley ! 

The  first  of  minstrels  in  the  hall, 
All-gifted  Lady  Gormley  ! 

Song  flow’d  from  out  her  snowy  throat 

As  from  the  thrush,  and  every  note 

Taught  men  to  dream,  and  bards  to  dote 
On  lovely  Lady  Gormley ! 

v. 

But  arm’d  as  is  the  honey-bee 
Was  fickle  Lady  Gormley ! 

And  hollow  as  the  alder-tree 

Was  smiling  Lady  Gormley! 

And  cold  and  haughty  as  the  swan 

That  glancing  sideward  saileth  on, 

That  loves  the  moon  and  hates  the  dawn, 
Was  heartless  Lady  Gormley ! 

VI. 

God’s  poor  had  never  known  her  care — 
The  lofty  Lady  Gormley  ! 

She  had  no  smile  for  nun  or  frere, 

The  worldly  Lady  Gormley ! 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


213 


She  fed  her  heart  on  human  praise, 

Forgot  her  soul  in  prosp’rous  days, 

Was  studious  but  how  to  amaze, 

The  haughty  Lady  Gormley  ! 

VII. 

At  last  she  fell  from  her  great  height, 
Unhappy  Lady  Gormley ! 

Her  lord  had  perish’d  in  the  fight, 

Unhappy  Lady  Gormley  ! 

And  now  she  has  nor  house  nor  home, 
Destined  from  rath  to  rath  to  roam, 

Too  proud  to  make  amend  or  moan, 

Unhappy  Lady  Gormley ! 

VIII. 

Behold  her  on  her  lonely  way, 

The  wretched  Lady  Gormley, 

And  mark  the  moral  of  my  lay, 

The  lay  of  Lady  Gormley ! 

When  Fortune  smiles,  make  God  your  friend, 
On  His  love  more  than  man’s  depend, 

So  may  you  never  in  the  end 

Share  the  woe  of  Lady  Gormley ! 


BRYAN , THE  TANIST. 

I. 

Bryan,  the  son  of  the  Tanist,  grew 
Stately  and  strong,  and  brave  and  true, 

The  heart  of  his  house  and  the  pride  of  his  name, 
Till  Torna,  the  poet,  his  guest  became, 

And  lit  his  blood  with  words  of  flame, 

And  soil’d  his  breast  with  schemes  of  shame. 


214 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


Toma  hated  Sil-Murray,  branch  and  root, 

And  he  swore  to  spoil  the  tree  of  its  fruit; 

And  Torna,  steadfast  as  any  hill, 

Had  a fiend’s  soul  with  a minstrel’s  skill, 

And  Bryan  he  used  as  his  ladder  until 
He  reach’d  his  mark  and  wrought  his  will. 

# 

ii. 

Through  fear,  and  fire,  and  settling  gloom, 

I hear  a fray,  and  I see  a tomb, 

From  a rifled  bed,  through  a rifted  wall, 

I see  the  son  of  the  Tanist  fall, 

And  like  the  exulting  eagle’s  call, 

The  poet’s  voice  is  over  all ! 


IV. 

Oh  human  passion  ! oh  human  strife ! 

How  do  you  taint  the  springs  of  life ! 

A thousand  souls  are  black  to-day 
From  the  smoke  of  this  fratricidal  fray, 
And  peace  from  our  sept  has  pass’d  away, 
And  the  end  of  the  guilty — who  shall  say  ? 


HOW  ST.  KIER AN  PROTECTED  CLONMACNOISE 

I. 

There  is  an  ancient  legend, 

By  the  Donegal  Masters  told, 

How  St.  Kieran  kept  his  churches, 

As  a shepherd  keeps  his  fold. 


TRSTokWAL  A\'iru!in:\»,u!\  purnu. 


ITS 


II. 

Ages  had  lain  in  their  ashes, 

Crowns  had  outworn  their  kings, 
Change  had  come  over  Clonmacnoise, 
As  it  comes  o’er  all  earthly  things. 

in. 

Long  gone  was  the  wooded  desert, 
Where  he  broke  the  Druid’s  reign — 
Long  gone  was  the  cruel  bondage 
Of  the  proud  usurping  Dane. 


rv. 

And  calm  as  a river  of  heaven 
The  Shannon  flow’d  along, 

By  the  towers  and  churches  seven, 
From  morn  till  even’  song. 


v. 

With  sounds  of  pious  duty, 

By  day  it  was  all  alive 
With  the  low  sweet  voice  of  study — 
The  hum  of  a holy  hive. 


In  the  street  the  youth  uncover’d, 

In  the  meadow  the  mower  knelt, 
When  the  call  to  prayer,  far  or  near, 
Was  heard  or  only  felt. 

VII. 

The  Spenser  left  his  store-house, 

The  Ostrarus  left  his  load, 

And  sage  and  lector  silent, 

Bow’d  to  the  call  of  God. 


116  HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 

yin. 

Now  Night,  the  priest  of  labor, 

Had  spread  his  cope  afar, 

And  brightly  on  his  bosom 
Glitter’d  the  morning  star. 


IX. 

Even  as  that  sole  star  glitter’d 
On  high  in  its  guardian  light, 
So  the  lamp  alone  keeps  vigil 
At  St.  Kieran’s  shrine  to-night 

x. 

The  lamp  alone  keeps  vigil, 

While  a shape  hits  to  the  shore. 
And  a shallop  down  the  river 
Has  shot  with  muffled  oar. 

XI. 

As  at  the  stir  of  the  latchet 
Flieth  the  beast  of  prey, 

So  swiftly  into  the  darkness 
The  shallop  glides  away. 


XII. 

No  sound  broke  o’er  the  landscape 
As  the  guilty  boatman  sped 
Through  the  ghastly  gray  of  daybreak, 
Like  the  ferryman  of  the  dead. 

XIII. 

But  sounds  of  wail  and  wonder 
Ere  noon,  on  every  side, 

Were  heard  by  that  peaceful  river 
Down  which  he  darkly  hied. 

1 


4- 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


217 


XIV. 

For  the  rifled  shrine  of  St.  Kieran 
Had  been  found  on  the  river  shore. 
And  an  eager  host  surrounded 
The  high- priest’s  open  door. 


xv. 

And  some  were  prompt  to  counsel, 
While  many  shook  with  fear — 

For  sure,  they  said,  such  sacrilege 
Foretold  disaster  near. 

XVI. 

At  the  door  outspake  the  high-priest— 
“ Let  every  one  begone 

To  his  daily  task,  to  his  chosen  work. 
The  saints  will  guard  their  own.” 

XVII. 

And  so  the  ancient  legend 
Relates  how  oft  in  vain 

The  bold  shrine-thief  took  shipping 
To  pass  beyond  the  main. 

XVIII. 

No  ship  wherein  he  enter’d 
Could  ever  find  a breeze  ; 

Her  masts  stood  fast  in  their  tackle 
As  in  the  soil  the  trees. 

XIX. 

While  right  and  left  all  freely 
Swept  past  the  outward  bound  ; 

The  ship  that  held  the  shrine-thief 
Seem’d  hard  and  fast  aground. 


+ 


rmvTrrrrrrTTTrinrrr  i ,pj  i 


YTK 


xx. 

The  sailors  at  the  rowlocks 

Toil’d  till  their  hearts  grew  faint ; 
Where  they  felt  only  the  current, 
He  felt  the  avenging  Saint. 


XXI. 

At  length  remorse  and  anguish 
O’ertook  the  caitiff  bold, 

And  stricken  with  mortal  terror, 

His  fearful  tale  he  told. 

XXII. 

And  now  a glad  procession 
Of  galleys,  with  banner  fine, 

Has  left  Athlone  with  the  gold  and  gems 
Of  St.  Kieran’s  plunder’d  shrine. 

XXIII. 

A day  of  great  rejoicing 
Is  this  for  the  land  around  ; 

The  Saint  has  been  exalted — 

That  which  was  lost  is  found. 

XXIV. 

On  the  morrow  spoke  the  high-priest — 

“ Let  every  one  begone 

To  his  daily  task,  to  his  chosen  work, 
The  saints  will  guard  their  own.” 


'Historical  and  le<; e*\)AR\  I'UJVMS. 


TTTT 


IONA  .36 

I. 

Would  you  visit  the  home  St.  Columbcille  chose? 

You  must  sail  to  the  north  when  the  west  wind  blows — 
To  the  art  where  grows  not  flowers  or  trees, 

On  the  soil  of  the  sea-spent  Hebrides; 

There,  over  against  the  steep  Ross  shore, 

' In  hearing  of  Coryvrekan’s  roar, 

You  will  find  the  dwarfish  holly  growing, 

And  see  the  brave  sea-bugles  blowing 
Around  the  roots  of  the  belladonna, 

On  the  shore  of  the  island — holy  Iona ! 

ii. 

In  that  lovely  isle  the  north  star  shines 
On  crownless  kings  and  saints  sans  shrines; 

There,  the  small  sheep  crop  the  grass  that  springs 
Lineally  up  from  the  loins  of  kings; 

There,  Jarls  from  Orkney  and  Heligoland, 

And  Thanes  from  York  and  from  Cumberland, 

And  Maormars  of  Moray,  and  Lennox,  and  Levin, 

Cruel  in  life,  lie  hoping  for  heaven ; 

There,  Magnus  of  Norway,  and  stern  Macbeth, 

Are  stretch’d  at  the  feet  of  the  democrat,  Death; 

And  chieftains  of  Ulster,  and  lords  of  Lorn, 

There  wait  for  the  trump  of  All-Soul’s  morn. 

in. 

“ Here  lived  Saint  Columb,”  the  ferrymen  say, 

“ He  kept  his  boats  in  this  shingly  bay; 

He  fenced  this  glebe,  he  set  up  this  stone 
(The  kirk  it  belong’d  to  was  overthrown) 

Upon  this  mound,  at  close  of  day; 

Facing  towards  Erin,  he  ever  would  pray. 


220  HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 

Thousands  of  blessings  he  gave  to  the  Gael — 
’Tis  pity  they  were  not  of  more  avail  1” 

IV. 

Saint  of  the  seas ! who  first  explored 
The  haunts  of  the  hyperborean  horde — 

Who  spread  God’s  name,  and  rear’d  his  cross 
From  Westra  wild  to  the  cliffs  of  Ross — 
Whose  sail  was  seen,  whose  voice  was  known 
By  dwellers  without  the  Vikings  zone — 
Whose  days  were  pass’d  in  the  teacher’s  toil — 
WThose  evening  song  still  fill’d  the  aisle — 
Whose  poet-heart  fed  the  wild  bird’s  brood — 
Whose  fervent  arm  upbore  the  rood — 

Whose  sacred  song  is  scarce  less  sublime 
Than  the  visions  that  typified  all  time — 

Still,  from  thy  roofless  rock  so  gray, 

Thou  preachest  to  all  who  pass  that  way. 


v. 

I hear  thy  voice,  O holy  Saint ! 

Of  to-day,  and  its  men  make  dire  complaint; 
Thou  speakest  to  us  of  that  spell  of  power, 

Thy  rocky  Iona’s  royal  dower — 

Of  the  light  of  love  and  love  of  light 
Which  made  it  shine  out  like  a star  in  the  night; 
Thou  pointest  my  eyes  to  the  deep,  deep  waves — 
Thou  callest  my  ken  to  the  mute,  mute  graves — 
Thou  wooeth  young  Life,  and  her  lover,  Faith, 

As  victors  to  enter  the  Castle  of  Death, 

And  to  leave  their  beacons  of  being  to  warn 
The  weak  and  wild  and  the  far  unborn 
Off  perilous  straits  and  fair-false  shoals, 

Where  myriads  have  lost  their  adventured  souls. 


t 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


221 


VI. 

Saint  of  the  seas ! when  the  winds  are  out — 
When,  like  dogs  at  fault,  they  quest  about — 
When  I wake  on  ocean’s  rocky  brink, 

While  the  billows  pause  and  seem  to  think, 

My  soul  from  its  earthly  mooring  slips 
And  glides  away  through  the  midnight  ships — 
And  all  unheeding  the  face  of  Fear 
That  darkles  down  on  the  marineer, 

It  rushes  through  wind,  and  space,  and  spray, 
And  through  the  birds  that  embank  the  bay, 
And  over  the  holly  and  belladonna, 

To  chant  its  lauds  in  thy  holy  Iona ! 


IONA  TO  ERIN /• 

WHAT  ST.  COLUMBA  SAID  TO  THE  BIRD  FLOWN  OVER  FROM  IRELAND  TO  IONA.3* 


I. 

Cling  to  my  breast,  my  Irish  bird, 

Poor  storm-toss’d  stranger,  sore  afraid! 

How  sadly  is  thy  beauty  blurr’d — 

The  wing  whose  hue  was  as  the  curd, 

Hough  as  the  sea-gull’s  pinion  made  I 

ii. 

Lay  close  thy  head,  my  Irish  bird, 

Upon  this  bosom,  human  still ! 

Nor  fear  the  heart  that  still  has  stirr’d 
To  every  tale  of  pity  heard 

From  every  shape  of  earthly  ill. 

* This  beautiful  poem  acquires  additional  interest  from  the  fact  that  it  was 
one  of  the  last  the  author  wrote,  having  appeared  in  print  only  a few  dayr 
before  his  death. 


222 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


III. 

For  you  and  I are  exiles  both — 

Rest  you,  wanderer,  rest  you  here ! 

Soon  fair  winds  shall  waft  you  forth 
Back  to  our  own  beloved  North — 

Would  God  I could  go  with  you,  dear! 

IV. 

Were  I as  you,  then  would  they  say, 
Hermits  and  all  in  choir  who  join — 

“ Behold  two  doves  upon  their  way, 

The  pilgrims  of  the  air  are  they — 

Birds  from  the  Liffey  or  the  Boyne  1” 

v. 

But  you  will  see  what  I am  bann’d 
No  more,  for  my  youth’s  sins,  to  see, 

My  Derry’s  oaks  in  council  stand 
By  Roseapenna’s  silver  strand — 

Or  by  Raphoe  your  course  may  be. 

VI. 

The  shrines  of  Meath  are  fair  and  far — 
White-wing’d  one,  not  too  far  for  thee — 
Emania,  shining  like  a star, 

(Bright  brooch  on  Erin’s  breast  you  are  1)  " 
That  I am  never  more  to  see. 

vn. 

You’d  see  the  homes  of  holy  men, 

Far  west  upon  the  shoreless  main — 

In  shelter’d  vale,  on  cloudy  ben,39 
Where  saints  still  pray,  and  scribes  still  pen 
The  sacred  page,  despising  g-ain ! 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


223 


VIII. 

Above  the  crofts  of  virgin  saints, 

There  pause,  my  dove,  and  rest  thy  wing, 
But  tell  them  not  our  sad  complaints, 

For  if  they  dreamt  our  spirit  faints, 

There  would  be  fruitless  sorrowing. 

IX. 

Perch,  as  you  pass,  amid  their  trees, 

At  noon  or  eve,  my  travelled  dove, 

And  blend  with  voices  of  their  bees, 

In  croft,  or  school,  or  on  their  knees — 

They’ll  bind  you  with  their  hymns  of  love  I 


x. 

Be  thou  to  them,  O dove ! where’er 
The  men  or  women  saints  are  found, 

My  hyssop  flying  through  the  air  ; 

My  seven-fold  benedictions  bear 
To  them,  and  all  on  Irish  ground. 

XI. 

Thou  wilt  return,  my  Irish  bird — 

I,  Columb,  do  foretell  it  thee  ; 

Would  thou  could’st  speak  as  thou  hast  heard 
To  all  I love — O happy  bird ! 

At  home  in  Erie  soon  to  be ! 


CAT  HAL'S  FAREWELL  TO  THE  RYE** 

I. 

Shining  sickle  ! lie  thou  there ; 

Another  harvest  needs  my  hand, 

Another  sickle  I must  bear 

Back  to  the  fields  of  my  own  land. 

1 vrckunfr.  .wild! 


224 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 


II. 


A crop  waves  red  on  Connaught’s  plain, 

Of  bearded  men  and  banners  gay, 

But  we  will  beat  them  down  like  rain, 

And  sweep  them  like  the  storm  away. 

F arewell,  sickle  ! welcome,  sword ! 


m. 

Peaceful  sickle  ! lie  thou  there, 

Deep  buried  in  the  vanquish’d  rye; 

May  this  that  in  thy  stead  I bear 
Above  as  thick  a reaping  lie ! 

Farewell,  sickle ! welcome,  sword ! 


IV. 

Welcome,  sword ! out  from  your  sheath, 

And  look  upon  the  glowing  sun  ; 

Sharp-shearer  of  the  field  of  death, 

Your  time  of  rust  and  rest  is  gone. 

Welcome,  welcome,  trusty  sword! 

v. 

Welcome,  sword ! no  more  repose 
For  Cathal  Crov-drerg  or  for  thee, 

Until  we  walk  o’er  Erin’s  foes, 

Or  they  walk  over  you  and  me, 

My  lightning,  banner-cleaving  sword  I 


VI. 


Welcome,  sword!  thou  magic  wand, 

Which  raises  kings  and  casts  them  down  ; 
Thou  sceptre  to  the  fearless  hand, 

Thou  fetter-kev  for  limbs  long  bound — 

Welcome,  wonder-working  sword! 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


225 


VII. 

Welcome,  sword!  no  more  with  love 
Will  Cathal  look  on  land  or  main, 

Till  with  thine  aid,  my  sword  ! I prove 
What  race  shall  reap  and  king  shall  reign. 

Farewell,  sickle!  welcome,  sword! 

VIII. 

Shining  sickle ! lie  thou  there; 

Another  harvest  needs  my  hand, 

Another  sickle  I must  bear 

Back  to  the  fields  of  my  own  land. 

Farewell,  sickle  ! welcome,  sword ! 


THE  DEATH  OF  DONNELL  MORE.*' 

A FRAGMENT. 

♦ * * * * 

V. 

On  they  came  to  Thurles — better 
For  their  wives,  if  such  men  wed, 

They  had  never  left  their  mud-walls — 

On  that  wild  adventure  led 
By  Donnell  More  and  the  Sil-Murray — 
Seventeen  hundred  of  them  bled  ! 


VI. 

On  the  plain  of  Thurles  rises 
High  a memorable  pile, 

Bear’d  to  God  by  the  great  victor, 
Visible  for  many  a mile: 

Well  may  his  majestic  spirit 
Walk,  in  pride,  its  lofty  aisle. 


226 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


VII. 

Piety  becomes  the  valiant, 

As  the  garland  does  the  bride — 

All  the  saints  lean  down  with  favor 
To  the  man  that  hath  been  tried; 

In  the  battle,  their  protection 
Is  as  armor  to  his  side. 

vm. 

Who  avenged  the  saints  like  Donnell, 

When  Prince  John  drove  down  his  stake 

On  Ard-Finian,  and  in  Tipraid, 

Sacred  for  Saint  Factna’s  sake  ? 

Who  but  he  drove  back  the  braggart, 

And  his  stone  entrenchments  brake  ? 

IX. 

Still  they  came — as  their  own  armor, 
Brazen  and  unbroken — back; 

And  the  clans  of  Munster  wither’d 
In  the  havoc  and  the  sack — 

Came,  but  fled  like  thieving  foxes, 

With  the  dun-dogs  on  their  track ! 

x. 

On  Kilfeakle  and  Knockgraffon 

Waves  no  more  their  lawless  flag — - 

Limerick  owns  no  Saxon  warder, 

None  tops  Saint  Finian’s  crag  ; 

Let  them  tell  their  tales  of  conquest. 

So  the  baffled  always  brag. 

XI. 


In  his  pride,  the  blue-stream’d  Shannon, 
Roll’d  between  unfetter’d  banks, 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


227 


With  meek  joy,  the  gentle  Suir, 

Maiden-like,  but  murmur’d  thanks — 
And  the  gray  hills  smiled  upon  him, 
Riding  in  his  conquering  ranks. 

XII. 

But  there  came  a time,  and  Donnell 
With  his  kingly  fathers  slept ; 

Other  chieftains  rose  in  Thomond, 

None  that  such  strict  guardship  kept — 
Other  warriors  rose,  but  never 
One  like  him  for  whom  she  wept. 

XIII. 

’Twas  not  that  his  blood  was  Brian’s, 
’Twas  not  that  his  heart  was  great, 
’Twas  not  that  he  took  from  no  man, 

But  gave  worthy  of  his  state — 

He  was  born  the  land’s  defender, 

The  fond  foster-son  of  Fate  ! 

XIV. 

He  was  served,  not  for  his  bounty, 

Nor  his  favor,  nor  his  name — 

Not  that  Fame  still  bore  his  banner, 

And  success  was  page  to  Fame — 

But  he  was  through  all  heroic, 

Hence  his  far-spread  following  came  ! 


xv. 

When  the  Saxons  came  like  snow-flakes, 
Covering  Banba’s  sacred  strand, 

He  arose — the  nation’s  chieftain, 

Warfare-wise,  and  strong  of  hand — 
And  his  name  became  a spell-word 
O’er  their  God-defying  band  ! 


ii ixTn ui<ja l axij  i.,ai  am  >.\uy  PdEMS. 


THE  CAOINE  OF  DONNELL  MORE* 


He  is  dead,  and  to  the  earth 
We  bear  our  shield  and  sparthe, 
Thomond’s  prince  and  Ireland’s  promise, 
In  God’s  anger  taken  from  us  ; 

And  the  bells  he  gave  are  pealing, 

And  the  hosts  he  led  are  kneeling, 

And  the  mourning  priesthood  falters 
At  his  marble-builded  altars — 

Chant  slower,  sisters,  slower, 

’Tis  the  Caoine  for  Donnell  More ! 

ii. 

Thomond’s  grief  will  not  be  hurried, 
Royal  deeds  cannot  be  buried, 

Men  cannot  cast  a dungeon 

O’er  the  stars,  and  he’s  among  them, — 

He,  of  his  the  liberal  spender, 

Of  ours  the  stern  defender — 

The  pillar  of  our  power, 

Snapp’d  in  our  trial’s  hour — 

Chant  slower,  sisters,  slower, 

’Tis  the  Caoine  of  Donnell  More ! 


in. 

Raise  your  voices,  keener,  shriller, 

Till  they  reach  the  upland  tiller, 

And  the  seaward  farthest  man  on 
The  blue-stream’d,  splendid  Shannon, 
And  the  eagle,  from  the  quarry, 

Shall  fly  back  to  his  high  eyrie. 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


229 


And  the  deer  on  Slieve  an  Iron 
Flee  as  when  the  dogs  environ, 

And  the  eremitic  heron 
Shall  fly  o’er  fen  and  fern — 

Walk  slower,  sisters,  slower, 

’Tis  the  corpse  of  Donnell  More ! 

IV. 

To  the  bards  of  Erin  he  was 
As  to  the  harp  the  Ceis ; 48 
As  o’er  yon  town  the  spire, 

So  he  stood  o’er  others  higher  ; 

As  the  fearless  ocean  ranger, 

Laugh’d  he  in  the  hour  of  danger  ; 

As  the  rover  on  the  land, 

Was  he  free  of  mind  and  hand — 
Walk  slower,  sisters,  slower, 

’Tis  the  corpse  of  Donnell  More ! 


When  the  Galls  fell  thick  as  hail 
On  the  roof-trees  of  the  Gael, 

* * * * * * 


ST.  CORMAC , THE  NAVIGATOR.* 

A LEGEND  OF  THE  ISLAND  OF  LEWI8. 

FIRST  ISLANDER. 

“ Look  out ! look  out ! on  the  waves  so  dark, 

And  tell  me  dost  thou  see  a bark 
Eiding  the  tempest  through  ? 

It  bears  a cross  on  its  slender  spar, 

And  a lamp  that  glances  like  a star, 

And  tkau»g»»  wJvb  Ac  awl"  — 

i 


230 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 


SECOND  ISLANDER. 


“ I see  a bark  far  off  at  sea* 

With  cross  and  lamp  and  crew  of  three, 

But  sooth  it  labors  sore  ; 

I see  it  rise,  I see  it  fall, 

Now  the  angry  ocean  swallows  all, 

And  I see  the  bark  no  more. 

FIRST  ISLANDER. 

‘ ‘ ’Tis  he ! ’tis  he  ! I know  his  sail — 

’Tis  the  holy  man  of  the  distant  Gael, 

True  to  his  plighted  word — 

‘ Be’t  storm  or  calm,  or  foul  or  fair/ 

He  said,  ‘ I will  be  surely  there 
On  the  birthday  of  our  Lord !’ 

“ He  is  the  saint  whose  hymn  soars  loud 
O’er  shifting  sail  and  crackling  shroud, 

Who  resteth  on  his  oar 
In  the  summer  midnight’s  silent  hour, 

May  haply  hear  that  voice  of  power 
O’er  Coryvrekan’s  roar. 

“ He  knoweth  how  to  steer  aright, 

By  the  yard,  and  plough,  and  northern  light, 
Through  the  battling  Shetland  Seas — 
Knoweth  of  every  port  the  sign 
From  Westra  to  Saint  Columb’s  shrine 
In  the  southern  Hebrides. 


“ A host  will  throng  to  cape  and  bay 
To  meet  him  each-  appointed  day, 

Be  it  festival  or  fast, 

And  if  his  bark  comes  not  in  sight 
They  deem  they  have  not  reckon’d  right. 
Or  that  the  day  is  past. 


1 

HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS.  231 

“ His  psalm  hath  waken’d  Osmunwall, 

And  from  the  cavern  of  Fingall 
Hath  shaken  down  the  spar; 

The  fishers  on  the  midnight  waves, 

And  the  otter-hunters  from  their  caves 
Salute  his  cross  and  star.” 

SECOND  ISLANDER. 

“ I see,  I see  through  the  night-fall  dark 
Saint  Cor  mac  sitting  in  his  bark, 

And  now  he  draweth  near ! 

Dear  Father  of  the  island  men, 

Welcome  to  Wallis’  Isle  again, 

And  to  our  Christmas  cheer !” 


SAINT  COLUMBANUS  IN  ITALY  TO  SAINT  CO  MG  ALL  IN 
IRELAND .<* 

I. 

Health  to  my  friend  and  Father ! far  beyond 

Sliabh  Colpa’s  snows  ! My  heart  impels  my  pen — 

My  heart,  however  far,  of  thee  still  fond — 

Thou  first  of  Ireland’s  wise  and  holy  men ! 

ii. 

Know,  holy  Comgall,  since  you  saw  our  sail 
Melt  in  the  horizon  of  the  Irish  Sea, 

God  hath  vouchsafed  new  conquests  to  the  Gael 
Through  Gaul,  and  Allemain,  and  Italy — 

Conquests,  my  Father,  unlike  those  of  old 
Which  our  benighted  chieftains  undertook, 

When  Dathi  by  the  thunderbolt  was  fell’d, 

And  Crimthan  half  the  thrones  Cis- Alpine  shook. 


i 


232 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


m. 

On  other  fields  we  win  far  other  fame, 

With  other  foes  we  wage  our  mortal  fight — 

Our  watchword  now  is  Christ,  our  Saviour’s  name. 
Our  forays  far  into  the  realms  of  night ; 

Like  exhalations  from  a fen,  the  powers 
Of  darkness  to  the  conflict  thick  ascend, 

But  the  Eternal  Charter  still  is  ours — 

“Lo!  I am  with  you  always,  to  the  end!” 


IV. 

In  Burgundy,  a she-wolf  broke  our  fold — 

A wolf  in  wiliness  and  craft  and  wrath — 

A queen  in  infamy  and  beauty  bold, 

Who  raised  a million  barriers  in  our  path ; 

But  God  on  Brunchant  did  judgment  dread — 

By  her  own  pride  her  funeral  pyre  was  rear’d, 
And  on  that  pile  I saw  her  haughty  head 

Lopp’d  by  the  axe,  and  by  the  lightning  scarr’d. 


v. 

In  bleak  Helvetia,  Gall  and  I essay’d, 

Not  fruitlessly,  the  blessed  cross  to  raise — 

And,  though  the  powers  of  hell  were  all  array’d 
Against  us,  we  had  courage,  God  have  praise ! 
Idols  of  wood  and  bronze  we  overthrew 
At  Arbona,  Tucconia,  Brigantium — 

Where  we  found  false  gods  we’ve  left  the  true  ; 
Now,  Zurich,  Constance,  shrine  their  idols  dumb. 


My  brother  Gall,  amid  the  Alps  abides — 

I preach  the  Gospel  through  the  Lombard  plain— 
The  harvest  ripens  round  me  on  all  sides, 

But  few  there  are  to  gather  in  the  grain. 


HISTORICAL  AND  IRC  END  ARY  POEMS. 


233 


Send  forth  some  laborers,  as  pure  and  keen 
As  the  steel’d  sickle,  to  your  scholar’s  aid — 
The  time  is  not  yet  come  when  weaklings  glean 
Where  Arius  draws  on  Christ  his  rebel  blade. 


VII. 

King  Agilulph,  the  Ard-Righ  of  this  land, 

God  hath  inspired  him  for  my  constant  friend — 
He  clears  my  path  with  his  strong  sceptred  hand, 
And  doth  himself  my  daily  steps  attend  ; 

And  it  has  been  my  lot  to  intercede 

With  Peter’s  Coarbh46  for  him  happily — 

And  now  we  all  are  one  in  word  and  deed 
From  the  far  Alps  to  the  Tyrhenian  Sea. 

vm. 

Comgall,  farewell ! May  all  the  angels  guard 
Banclior,*  our  mother,  and  her  holy  men, 

And  our  dear  island,  isle  of  God’s  regard ; 

Be  all  our  blessings  on  you  all ! Amen. 


THE  TESTAMENT  OF  ST.  ARBOGAST. 


I. 

St.  Arbogast,  the  bishop,  lay 

On  his  bed  of  death  in  Strasburg  Palace — 
And,  just  at  the  dawn  of  his  dying  day, 

Into  his  own  hands  took  the  chalice  ; 

And,  praying  devoutly,  he  received 
The  blessed  Host,  and  thus  address’d 
His  Chapter,  who  around  him  grieved, 

And,  sobbing,  heard  his  last  request. 


* A famous  monastery  in  the  province  of  Ulster,  of  which  St.  Comgall  wai 
Abbot.— Ed. 


JL 


234 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


II. 

Quoth  he — “ The  sinful  man  you  see 
Was  born  beyond  the  Western  sea, 

In  Ireland,  whence,  ordain’d,  he  came, 

In  Alsace,  to  preach,  in  Jesus’  name. 

There,  in  my  cell  at  Hagueneau, 

Many  unto  the  One  I drew  ; 

There  fared  King  Dagobert  one  day, 

With  all  his  forestrie  array, 

Chasing  out  wolves  and  beasts  unclean, 

As  I did  errors  from  Grod’s  domain  ; 

The  king  approached  our  cell,  and  he 
Esteem’d  our  assiduity ; 

And,  when  the  bless’d  St.  Amand  died, 

He  call’d  us  to  his  seat,  and  sighed, 

And  charged  us  watch  and  ward  to  keep 
In  Strasburg  o’er  our  Master’s  sheep. 

in. 

“Mitre  of  gold  we  never  sought — 

Cope  of  silver  to  us  was  nought — 

Jewel’d  crook  and  painted  book 
We  disregarded,  but,  perforce,  took. 

Ah ! oft  in  Strasburg’s  cathedral 
We  sighed  for  one  rude  cell  so  small, 

And  often  from  the  bishop’s  throne 
To  the  forest’s  depths  we  would  have  flown, 
But  that  one  duty  to  Him  who  made  us 
His  shepherd  in  this  see,  forbade  us. 


“And  now — ” St.  Arbogast  spoke  slow, 

But  his  words  were  firm,  though  his  voice  was  low — 
“ God  doth  require  His  servant  hence, 

And  our  hope  is  His  omnipotence. 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


235 


But  bury  me  not,  dear  brethren,  with 
The  pomp  of  torches  or  music,  sith 
Such  idle  and  unholy  state 
Should  ne’er  on  a Christian  bishop  wait ; 
Leave  cope  of  silver  and  painted  book, 

Mitre  of  gold,  and  jewel’d  crook, 

Apart  in  the  vestry’s  darkest  nook  ; 

But  in  Mount  Michael  bury  me, 

Beneath  the  felon’s  penal  tree — 

So  Christ  our  Lord  lay  at  Calvary. 

This  do,  as  y.e  my  blessing  prize, 

And  God  keep  you  pure  and  wise !” 

These  were  the  words — they  were  the  last — 
Of  the  blessed  Bishop  Arbogast.47 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  DANES  « 

I. 

The  nighv  is  holy — ’tis  blessed  Saint  Bride’s — 49 
The  hour  may  be  almost  one  : 

Lord  Murrough  late  on  the  rath-top  bides, 

Gazing  the  new  moon  on. 

The  moon,  he  had  dreamt,  that  night  would  throw 
O’er  his  lands  a sign  of  warning  or  woe. 


ii. 

The  night  is  holy — the  visible  sea 
Spreads  like  a dinted  silver  plain, 

And  Lord  Murrough’s  oaks  look'shadowingly 
Across  the  vista  meeting  again. 

The  watch-dog  sleeps,  and  though  prayers  are  said, 
_|Tis_not_the i_  nightingale  cha.it-  j’er  the  dead. 


230  HISTORICAL  AND  LHC  END  ARY  POEMS. 

III. 

The  watch-dog  sleeps — enough  are  awake  ; 

Chapel  and  cloister  are  wakeful  all — 

Long  after  the  final  prayer  they  make, 

Lord  Murrough  walks  still  on  the  shining  wall, 
Gazing  the  pale  mute  moon  in  the  face — 

By  his  feet  lies  his  well-worn  battle  mace. 

IV. 

His  battle  mace ! What  does  it  there  ? 

Why  are  his  greaves  and  armlets  on  ? 

Has  he  thrown  his  guage  to  the  fiends  of  air 
That  his  visor  is  barr’d  in  the  moonlight  wan  ? 
He  awaiteth  the  sign  he  is  to  see — 

If  for  war,  he  will  hie  forth  instantly. 

v. 

The  night  is  wearing  of  blessed  Saint  Bride, 

The  hour  may  be  nigh  to  three, 

Lord  Murrough  casts  his  glance  aside 
From  the  moon  out  to  the  sea. 

What  sable  shade  from  the  zenith  fell  ? 

Lord  Murrough  shuddered,  yet  could  not  telL 


VI. 

He  look’d  aloft — a wing — a bill — 

Another — two  ravens  grim 
O’erspread  the  moon,  wrapt  castle  and  hill, 

And  the  sea  to  the  horizon’s  rim. 

The  birds  of  Odin  in  the  spirit-sphere 

Ne’er  shed  from  their  wings  such  darksome  fear. 

VII. 

Lord  Murrough  mutter’d  his  longest  prayer, 
With  a few  added  words  at  the  end  ; 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


237 


And  he  held  by  his  mace  in  the  lightless  air, 
With  the  grasp  of  a trusting  friend  ; 

And  full  an  hour  it  might  have  been 
Till  land,  sky,  and  sea  were  again  serene. 

vm. 

Then  looking  seaward  the  sad  lord  saw 
A fisherman  drawing  his  net, 

And  the  sea  was  as  bright  as  a summer  shaw, 
Though  the  shore  was  like  rocks  of  jet — 
And  the  sea-bird  croak’d,  and  the  coming  oar 
Sent  its  dreary  echoes  to  haunt  the  shore. 


IX. 

Lord  Murrough  knew  that  the  days  of  rest 
For  his  native  land  were  fled — 

And  he  pray’d  to  God  and  St.  Bride  the  blest 
To  arm  her — heart  and  head  ; 

Then  he  tenderly  kiss’d,  and  lay  down  by  his  mace — 
And  he  died — the  last  free  lord  of  his  race  I 


THE  DEATH  OF  KING  MAGNUS  BAREFOOT 


I. 


On  the  eve  of  Saint  Bartholomew  in  Ulfrek’s-fiord  we  lay 
(Thus  the  importuned  Scald  began  his  tale  of  woe), 
And  faintly  round  our  fleet  fell  the  August  evening  gray, 
And  the  sad  sunset  winds  began  to  blow. 

n. 


[ stood  beside  our  monarch  then — deep  care  was  on  his 
brow — 

“I  hear  no  horn,”  he  sighed,  “ from  the  shore  : 


238 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


Why  tarry  still  my  errand-men  ? — ’tis  time  they  were  here 
now, 

And  that  for  some  less  guarded  land  we  bore.” 

hi. 

Into  the  valley’d  West  these  errand-men  had  gone — 

To  Muirkeartach,  the  ally  of  our  king 
(Whose  daughter  late  was  wed  to  Earl  Sigurd,  his  son), 

The  gift-herd  from  Connacia  to  bring. 

IV. 

’Twas  midnight  in  the  firmament,  ten  thousand  stars  were 
there, 

And  from  the  darksome  sea  look’d  up  other  ten — 

I lay  beside  our  monarch,  he  was  sleepless,  and  the  care 
On  his  brow  had  grown  gloomier  then. 

v. 

When  morning  dawning  gray  in  lightsome  circles  spread, 
From  his  couch  rose  the  king  slowly  up, 

“ Elldiarn,  what ! thou  awake ! I must  landward  go,”  he 
said, 

“ And  with  thee  or  with  the  saints  I shall  sup.” 

VI. 

Then  when  the  red  sun  rose,  in  his  galley  through  the  fleet 
Our  noble  Magnus  went;  and  the  earls  all  awoke, 

And  each  prepared  for  land — the  late  errand-men  to  meet, 
Or  to  free  them  from  the  Irish  yoke. 

VII. 

It  was  a noble  army  ascending  the  green  hills 
As  ever  kingly  master  led  ; 

The  memory  of  their  marching  my  mournful  bosom  thrills. 
And  I still  hear  the  echo  of  their  tread. 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


239 


VIII. 


Ere  two  hours  had  pass’d  away,  as  I wander’d  on  the  strand, 
Battle-cries  from  afar  reach’d  my  ear  ; 

I climb’d  the  seaward  mountain  and  look’d  upon  the  land, 
And,  in  sooth,  I saw  a sight  of  fear. 


IX. 

As  winter  rocks  all  jagged  with  the  leafless  arms  of  pines, 
Stood  the  Irish  host  of  spears  on  their  path — 

As  the  winter  streams  down  dash  through  the  terrible 
ravines, 

So  our  men  pour’d  along,  white  with  wrath. 

x. 

The  arrow  flights,  at  intervals,  were  thicker  o’er  the  field 
Than  the  sea-birds  o’er  Jura’s  rocks, 

While  the  ravens61  in  the  darkness  were  lost — shield  on  shield 
Within  it  clash’d  in  thunderous  shocks. 

XI. 

At  last  one  hoarse  “ Farrah  /”  broke  from  the  battle-cloud 
Like  the  roar  of  a billow  in  a cave, 

And  the  darkness  was  uplifted  like  a plague-city’s  shroud — 
And  there  lifeless  lay  our  monarch  brave. 

XII. 

And  dead  beside  the  king  lay  Earl  Erling’s  son, 

And  Erving  and  Ulf,  the  free  ; 

And  loud  the  Irish  cried  to  see  what  they  had  done, 

But  they  could  not  cry  as  loud  as  we. 

XIII. 

Oh,  Norway!  oh,  Norway!  when  wilt  thou  behold 
A king  like  thy  last  in  worth. 


4 


240 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


Whose  heart  fear’d  not  the  world,  whose  hand  was  full  of 
gold 

For  the  numberless  Scalds  of  the  North. 

XIV. 

Ah. ! well  do  I remember  how  he  swept  the  Western  seas 
Like  the  wind  in  its  wintry  mood — 

How  he  reared  young  Sigurd’s  throne  upon  the  Orcades, 
And  the  isles  of  the  South  subdued. 

xv. 

In  his  galley  o’er  Cantire,  how  we  bore  him  from  the  main — 
How  Mona  in  a week  he  won, 

By  him,  how  Chester’s  earl  in  Anglesea  was  slain — 

Oh,  Norway  ! that  his  course  is  run ! 


THE  SAGA  OF  KING  OLAF,  OF  NORWAY,  AND  HIS  DOG .« 

i. 

[Of  the  early  reigu  of  Olaf,  surnamed  Tryggvesson.] 

King  Olaf,  Harold  Haarfager’s  heir,  at  last  hath  reach’d  the 
throne, 

Though  his  mother  bore  him  in  the  wilds  by  a mountain  lake- 
let  lone ; 

Through  many  a land  and  danger  to  his  right  the  king  hath 

pass’d, 

Outliving  still  the  low’ring  storms,  as  pines  outlive  the  blast; 
Yet  now,  when  Peace  smiled  on  his  throne,  he  cast  his 
thoughts  afar, 

And  sail’d  from  out  the  Baltic  Sea  in  search  of  Western  war. 
His  galley  was  that  “ Sea-Serpent”  renown’d  in  sagas  old, 
His  banner  bore  two  ravens  grim,  his  green  mail  gleam’d 
with  gold — 

The  king’s  ship  and  the  king  himself  were  glorious  to  behold. 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


241 


ii. 

[The  success  of  King  Olaf’s  cruise  to  the  West.] 

O’er  the  broad  sea  the  Serpent  leaves  a train  of  foam  behind, 
The  pillaged  people  of  the  isles  the  darker  record  find; 

For  the  godly  royal  pirate,  whene’er  he  took  a town, 

Sent  all  its  souls  to  Odin’s  court,  its  treasures  to  his  own. 

His  Scalds  of  prophet  ear,  oft  heard — it  lives  still  in  their 
lays— 

All  the  voices  of  Valhalla  in  chorus  sing  his  praise; 

But  Tryggvesson  was  a fighting  king,  who  loved  his  wolf- 
dog  more, 

His  stalwart  ship  and  faithful  crew  and  shining  golden  store, 
Than  all  the  rhyming  chroniclers  gray  Iceland  ever  bore. 

in. 

[How  King  Olaf  made  a descent  on  Antrim,  and  carried  off  the  herds  thereof.] 

Where  Antrim’s  rock-begirdled  shore  withstands  the  north- 
ern deep, 

O’er  Bed  Bay’s  broad  and  buoyant  breast,  cold,  dark  breezes 
creep — 

The  moon  is  hidden  in  her  height,  the  night  winds  ye  may  see 
Flitting  like  ocea^L  owlets  from  the  cavern’d  shore  set  free — 
The  full  tide  slumbers  by  the  cliffs  a-weary  of  its  toil, 

The  goat-herds  and  their  flocks  repose  upon  the  upland  soil — 
The  Sea-King  slowly  walks  the  shore,  unto  his  instincts  true 
While  up  and  down  the  valley’d  land  climbeth  his  corsair  crew, 
Noiseless  as  morning  mist  ascends,  or  falls  the  evening  dew. 

IV. 

[The  king  is  addressed  by  a clown  having  a marvellous  cunning  dog  in  his 

company.] 

Now  looking  to  land  and  now  to  sea,  the  king  walk’d  on 
his  way, 

Until  the  faint  face  of  the  morn  gleam’d  on  the  darksome 


242 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


A noble  herd  of  captured  kine  rank  round  its  ebb-dried 
beach — 

The  galleys  fast  receive  them  in,  when,  lo ! with  eager  speech, 
A clown  comes  headlong  from  the  hills,  begging  his  oxen 
three, 

And  two  white-footed  heifers,  from  the  Monarch  of  the  Sea. 
The  hurried  prayer  the  king  allowed  as  soon  as  it  he  heard. 
The  wolf-dog  of  the  peasant,  obedient  to  his  word, 

Counts  out  and  drives  apart  the  five  from  the  many-headed 
herd. 

v. 

[King  Olaf  offereth  to  purchase  the  peasant’s  dog,  who  bestows  it  on  him  with 
a condition.] 

“ By  Odin,  king  of  men  !”  marvelling,  the  monarch  spoke, 
“I’ll  give  thee,  peasant,  for  thy  dog,  ten  steers  of  bettel 
yoke 

Than  thine  own  five.”  The  hearty  peasant  said: 

“ King  of  the  ships ! the  dog  is  thine;  yet,  if  I must  be  paid, 
Vow,  by  your  raven  banner,  never  again  to  sack 
Our  valleys  in  the  hours  of  night — we  dread  no  day  attack.” 
More  wonder’d  the  fierce  pagan  still  to  hear  a clown  so  say, 
And  mused  he  for  a moment,  as  was  his  kingly  way, 

If  that  he  should  not  carry  both  the  man  and  dog  away 


VI. 

King  Olaf  taketh  the  vow,  and  saileth  with  the  dog  away.] 

The  Sea-King  to  the  clown  made  vow,  and  on  his  finger  placed 
An  olden  ring  the  sceptre-hand  of  his  great  sire  had  graced, 
And  round  his  neck  a chain  he  flung  of  gold  pure  from  the 
mine, 

Which,  ere  another  moon,  was  laid  upon  St.  Columb’s  shrine ; 
Then  with  his  dog  he  left  the  shore — his  sails  swell  to  the 
blast  ; 

Poor  “ Vig  ” hath  howl’d  a mournful  cry  to  the  bright  shores 
as  they  pass’d. 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


243 


Now  brighter  beam’d  the  sunrise,  and  wider  spread  the  tide ; 
Away,  away  to  the  Scottish  shore  the  Danish  galleys  hied — 
There,  revelling  with  their  kindred,  three  days  they  did 
abide. 


King  Olaf  was  a rover  true — his  home  was  in  his  bark, 

The  blue  sea  was  his  royal  bath,  stars  gemm’d  his  curtains 
dark; 

The  red  sun  woke  him  in  the  morn,  and  sail’d  he  e’er  so  far, 
The  untired  courier  of  his  way  was  the  ancient  Polar  star. 

It  seem’d  as  though  the  very  winds,  the  clouds,  the  tides, 
and  waves, 

Like  the  sea-side  smiths  and  Vikings,  were  his  lieges  and  his 
slaves; 

His  premier  was  a pilot  old,  of  bronzed  cheek  and  falcon  eye, 
A man,  albeit,  who  well  loved  life,  yet  fear’d  he  not  to  die, 
Who  little  knew  of  crowns  or  courts,  and  less  to  crouch  or  lie. 


[The  treason  of  the  Jomsburg  Vikings  calleth  home  the  king.] 

Strange  news  have  come  from  Norway — the  Vikings  have 
rebell’d; 

Homeward,  homeward  fast  as  fate,  his  galley’s  sails  are 
swell’d, — 

Off  Heligoland,  Jarl  Thover,  and  Rand  the  Witch  they 
meet, 

But  a mystic  wind  bears  the  evil  one,  unharm’d,  far  from 
the  fleet. 

Jarl  Thover  to  the  land  retreats — the  fierce  king  follows  on, 

Slaying  the  traitors’  compeers,  who  far  from  them  doth  run. 

After  him  flung  King  Olaf  his  never-missing  spear, 

But  Thover  (he  was  named  Hiort,53  and  swifter  than  the 
deer) 

In  the  distance  took  it  up,  and  answer’d  with  a ' 


VII. 

[Of  the  Sea-King’s  manner  of  life.] 


vin. 


244 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


[Thover  Hiort  treacherously  killeth  the  king’s  dog.] 

The  wolf-dog  then  the  monarch  loosed — the  traitor  trembled 
sore; 

Vig  holds  him  on  the  forest’s  verge — the  king  speeds  from 
the  shore. 

Trembled  yet  more  the  caitiff  to  think  what  he  should  do — 

He  drew  his  glaive,  and  with  a blow  pierced  his  captor 
through. 

And  when  the  king  came  to  the  place,  his  noble  dog  lay 
dead, 

His  red  mouth  foaming  white,  and  his  white  breast  crimson 
red. 

“ God’s  curse  upon  you,  Thover !” — ’twas  from  the  heart,  I 
ween, 

Of  the  grieved  king  this  ban  burst  out  beside  the  forest 
green. 

The  traitor  vanish’d  into  the  woods,  and  never  again  was 
seen. 

x. 

[How  King  Olaf  and  his  dog  were  buried  nigh  unto  one  another  by  the  sea.) 

Two  cairns  rise  by  Drontheim-fiord,  with  two  gray  stones 
hard  by, 

Sculptured  with  Eunic  characters,  plain  to  the  lore-read 
eye, 

And  there  the  king,  and  here  his  dog,  from  all  their  toils 
repose, 

And  o’er  their  cairns  the  salt-sea  wind,  night  and  day,  it 
blows; 

And  close  to  these  they  point  you  the  ribs  of  a galley’s 
wreck, 

With  a fork’d  tongue  in  the  curling  crest,  and  half  of  a scaly 

neck ; 


t 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDART  POEMS. 


245 


And  some  late-sailing  Scalds  have  told,  that  along  the  shore- 
side  gray, 

They  have  often  heard  a kingly  voice  and  a huge  hound’s 
echoing  bay — 

And  some  have  seen  the  traitor  to  the  pine  woods  running 
away. 


KING  MALACHY  AND  THE  POET  M‘COISI" 

I. 

King  Malachy,  shorn  of  crown  and  renown, 

With  nothing  left  but  his  mensal  board, 

Hung  in  the  troopless  hall  his  sword, 

Cared  his  own  horse  in  the  stable, 

And  daily  sank  deeper  in  joys  of  the  table  ; 

For  Brian  the  King  by  force  and  art, 

By  might  of  brain  and  hope  of  heart, 

Conquer’d  the  sceptre  and  won  the  crown, 

Leaving  to  Malachy  little  renown. 

ii. 

In  Tara’s  hall  was  room  to  spare, 

For  few  were  the  chiefs  and  courtiers  there  ; 

Of  all  who  stood  well  in  the  monarch’s  graces, 

But  three  retain’d  their  ancient  places, 

And  two  of  the  three  had  follow’d  Brian, 

Had  the  conqueror  thought  them  worth  his  buyin’, 

The  third,  the  Poet  M‘Coisi,  alone 

Stood  true  to  the  empty,  discrown’d  throne. 

m. 

And  many  a tale  the  poet  told 
Of  Tara’s  splendor  in  days  of  old — 


246  HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


Of  Erin’s  wonderful  builders  three, 

Of  Troylane,  the  builder  of  Rath-na-ree, 

And  Unadh,  who  built  the  banquet-hall, 

And  the  Gobhan  Saer,  the  master  of  all  ; 

Of  the  Miller  of  Nith,  and  the  Miller  of  Fore, 

And  many  a hundred  marvels  more  ; 

Of  the  Well  of  Galloon  that,  like  sudden  sorrow, 
Turns  the*hair  to  gray  to-morrow ; 

Of  the  Well  of  Slieve-bloom,  which,  who  profanes 
On  the  land  around,  draws  down  plagues  and  rains  ; 
Of  the  human  wolves  that  howl  and  prey 
Through  Ossory’s  Woods  from  dark  till  day ; 

Of  speaking  babes  and  potent  boys, 

And  the  wonderful  man  of  Clonmacnoise, 

Who  lived  seven  years  without  a head, 

And  the  edifying  life  he  led  ; 

Of  ships  and  armies  seen  in  the  air, 

And  the  wonders  wrought  by  St.  Patrick’s  prayer. 
******* 


KING  BRIAN’S  AMBITION .» 


i. 

King  Brian  by  the  Shannon  shore 
Stood  musing  on  his  power, 

For  now  it  had  the  torrent’s  roar, 
Swoll’n  by  the  wint’ry  shower — 
But  when  the  cold  grave  held  him  fast, 
Where  would  it  be,  or  would  it  last  ? 


ii. 

By  him  ’twas  gather’d  slowly  as 
The  Shannon  gathers  strength, 

r 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEG  END  All  Y POEMS. 


247 


And  now  the  force  and  freight  it  has 
The  depth,  the  spread,  the  length, — 
The  very  greatness  so  long  sought 
Dark  shadows  from  the  future  caught ; 

in. 

The  cold  distrust  of  meaner  souls, 

The  hatred  of  the  vile, 

That  pride  which  nothing  long  controls — 
Worst  evil  of  our  isle — 

All  these  like  rocky  barriers  lay 
In  the  Clan-Dalgais’  onward  way. 

IV. 

“ Care  crowns  a monarch  with  his  crown, 
And  he  who  cannot  bear  it 
Had  better  lay  the  burden  down 
Nor  vainly  seek  to  share  it ; 

Wealth,  honor,  justice  he  may  share, 

But  all  his  own  is  kingly  care.” 

v. 

So  spoke  the  heart  within  the  breast 
Of  that  brave  king  whose  story 
Burns  redly  in  the  Gaelic  West, 

Its  setting  sun  of  glory. 

When  night  his  house  of  darkness  bars, 
There  riseth  after  him  but  stars. 

VI. 

Dark  shadows  on  the  Shannon  fell, 

The  day  was  spent  and  gone, 

Long  in  the  unfrequented  dell 
The  monarch  mused  alone — 

Well  may  you  deem  what  was  the  prayer 
The  royal  patriarch  offer’d  there. 


248 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


♦ 


KING  BRIAN’S  LAMENT  FOR  HIS  BROTHER  MAIION* 

A FBAGMENT. 

I. 

Ah  ! what  is  the  news  I hear, 

My  brother  dear ! my  brother  dear  ! 

But  yesterday  we  sent  you  forth 
In  hope  and  health,  in  joy  and  mirth, 

But  yesterday — and  yet  to-day 
We  lay  you  in  your  house  of  clay  ! 


0 Mahon,  of  the  curling  locks, 

With  teeth  like  foam  on  ocean  rocks, 

With  heart  that  breasted  battle's  wave, 
Are  mine  the  hands  to  make  your  grave — 
These  hands  that  first  you  taught  to  hold 

a|e3|c9)c3|c3fc9f:3|e3ie 


KING  BRIAN'S  ANSWER. 

I. 

“ Go  not  forth  to  the  battle,”  they  said, 

“ But  abide  with  your  councillors  sage  ; 

A helmet  would  weigh  down  the  head 
That  already  is  weigh’d  down  with  age. 

There  are  warriors  many  a one 

In  their  prime,  all  impatient  to  go  ; 

Let  the  host  be  led  on  by  your  son, 

He  will  bring  you  the  spoils  of  the  foe.” 

* Treacherously  slain  by  a Munster  chieftain  named  O’Donovan. 


I 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEO  END  ARY  POEMS. 


249 


II. 

But  the  aged  king  rose  in  his  place, 

And  his  eye  had  the  fire  of  long-past  years, 
And  his  hand  grasp’d  the  keen-pointed  mace, 
And  silence  came  over  his  peers. 

“ ’Tis  true  I am  old,” — and  he  smiled — 

“ And  the  grave  lies  not  far  on  my  road, 
But  in  arms  I was  nursed  as  a child, 

And  in  arms  I will  go  to  my  God ! 

hi. 

“ For  this  is  no  battle  for  spoil, 

No  struggle  with  rivals  for  power  ; 

The  gentile  is  camp’d  on  our  soil, 

Where  he  must  not  exult  for  an  hour. 

’Tis  true  I am  old,” — and  he  smiled — 

“ And  the  grave  lies  not  far  on  my  road, 
But  in  arms  I was  nursed  as  a child, 

And  in  arms  I will  go  to  my  God.” 


THE  BATTLE  OF  CLONTARF. 
Good  Friday,  1014. 

I. 

As  the  world’s  Kedeemer  hung 
On  a tree  this  day  to  save, 

In  His  love,  each  tribe  and  tongue 
From  the  thraldom  of  the  grave, 

We  vow — attest,  ye  heavens ! — by  His  gor® 
To  snap  the  damning  chain 
Of  this  Christ-blaspheming  Dane 
Who  defiles  each  holy  fane 

We  adore. 


250 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


t 


H. 

But — death  to  Erin’s  pride — 

Amid  Sitric’s  host  behold 
Malmordha’s  squadron  ride, 

Who  betray,  for  Danish  gold, 

Their  country,  virtue,  fame,  and  their  souls. 
“ False  traitors,  by  the  rood, 

Ye  shall  weep  such  waves  of  blood 
As  in  winter’s  spring-tide  flood 

Ocean  rolls !” 


m. 

Thus  spoke  our  wrathful  king 
As  he  drew  Kincora’s  sword, 

And  abroad  he  bade  them  fling 
The  emblazonry  adored, 

The  mystic  sun  arising  on  the  gale  ; 

And  a roar  of  joy  arose 
As  they  bent  a wood  of  bows 
On  thy  godless  robber  foes, 

Innisfail ! 
rv. 

The  fierce  Yikinger  now 
On  the  dreadful  Odin  call, 

And  the  gods  of  battle  bow 
From  Valhalla’s  cloudy  hall, 

And  bend  them  o’er  the  dim  “ feast  of  shells,” 
But,  like  drops  of  tempest-rain, 

The  innumerable  slain 
Of  the  traitor  and  the  Dane 

Strew  the  dells. 


v. 

Clontarf ! a sea  of  blood 

Rushes  purple  from  thy  shore, 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


251 


And  the  billow’s  rising  flood 
Is  repell’d  by  waves  of  gore, 

That  fling  a sanguine  blush  o’er  the  tide, — 
We  have  drawn  the  sacred  sword 
Of  green  Erie  and  the  Lord, 

And  have  crush’d  the  Sea-King’s  horde 
In  their  pride. 

VI. 

Rise ! Ruler  of  the  North ! 

Terrific  Odin,  rise ! 

Let  thy  stormy  laughter  forth 
Burst  in  thunder  from  the  skies. 
Prepare  for  heroes  slain,  harp  and  shell  1 
For  we  crowd  thy  feast  to-night 
With  the  flow’er  of  Ocean’s  might, 
Who,  in  Freedom’s  burning  sight, 
Blasted,  fell! 

VII. 

There  lie  the  trampled  Dane, 

And  the  traitor  prince’s  band, 

Who  could  brook  a foreign  chain 
On  the  green  Milesian  land, 

Where  immortal  beauty  reigns  evermore  ; 
And  the  surf  is  bloody  red 
Where  the  proud  barbarian  bled, 

Or  with  terror  winged  fled 

From  our  shore. 

VIII. 

Such  ever  be  the  doom 

Of  the  tyrant  and  the  slave — 

Be  their  dark  unhonor’d  tomb 
’Neath  the  falchions  of  the  brave, 


252 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


Who,  fired  with  Freedom’s  soul,  clasp  the  brand— 
O goddess  thrice  divine  ! 

Be  our  isle  again  thy  shrine, 

And  renew  the  soul  of  Bri’n 

Through  the  land ! 


THE  SINFUL  SCHOLAR. 

“ O Father  Abbot  !”  the  pale  friar  said, 

“ Awake ! arise ! our  scholar’s  dead  !” 
“Dead!  and  so  soon?” — “Ay!  even  now 
His  heart  hath  ceased.” — “ Yet  tell  me  how?” 
“ Thus  ’twas  : As  Clarence,  Hugh,  and  I 
Watch’d  by  his  pallet  prayerfully, 

The  gray  dawn  broke ; up  from  the  bed 
Suddenly  rose  that  mighty  head — 

‘ Oh  ! bring  me  forth  into  the  light,’ 

He  cried — ‘ I would  have  one  last  sight 
Of  the  fair  morning  as  it  breaks 
Upon  the  antlers  of  the  Reeks!’  * 

We  bore  him  forth.  Clarence  and  Hugh 
Turn’d  and  wept.  He  drank  the  view 
Into  his  very  soul,  and  sigh’d 
As  if  content.  I by  his  side 
Then  heard  him  breathe,  in  accents  faint, 
Some  name — perchance  his  patron  saint  ; 

He  clasp’d  my  hand — I felt  it  quiver, 

And  the  swift  soul  was  fled  forever ! 

Think  me  not  crazed  if  now  I tell 
What  instant  on  his  death  befel : 

Beside  the  bed,  become  a bier, 

We,  kneeling,  heard  a rustling  near — 

* Celebrated  mountains  in  Kerry. 


f 

HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS . 253 

Then  dropp’d,  like  blossoms  from  a tree, 

Three  doves,  as  lilies  fair  to  see — 

Think  me  not  void  of  mind  or  sense — 

Three  lighted  there,  but  four  flew  hence — 

Four  doves,  if  ever  I said  a prayer, 

Soar’d  skyward  through  the  lucid  air — 

Clarence  and  Hugh,  as  well  as  I, 

That  they  were  four,  can  testify !” 
****** 

Close  by  Killarney’s  gentle  wave 
They  made  the  scholar’s  simple  grave — 

The  blue  lake,  like  a lady,  grieves 
Saddest  in  the  long  autumn  eves — 

The  stern  hills,  like  a warrior  host, 

Look  down  upon  their  loved  and  lost — 

The  genius  of  the  place  he  sleeps 
Beneath  the  heights,  above  the  deeps — 

Who  fed  on  sunshine,  drank  the  dew, 

Who  mortal  weakness  never  knew. 
****** 

No  stone  spoke  o’er  him — rose  alone 
A wooden  cross — long,  long  since  gone — 

But  far  and  near,  through  many  an  age, 

He  lived  in  chronicles  a sage — 

One  of  the  marvels  of  his  race, 

Whose  lightest  word  ’twere  joy  to  trace  ; 

And  so  the  unreal  shape  became 
The  heritor  of  all  his  fame — 

And  the  true  story  slept  as  deep 
As  this  world’s  memory  can  sleep. 

Of  gentle  blood  and  generous  birth, 

Neither  a lord  nor  clod  of  earth, 


254 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


Of  careful  sire  and  mother  holy, 

Our  scholar  was.  This,  and  this  solely 
He  ever  told.  No  more  was  known, 

Even  when  his  fame  afar  had  flown 
On  the  four  winds.  His  after  course 
Obscured  the  interest  of  his  source. 

One,  only  one,  in  secret  cell, 

The  whole  of  that  strange  life  could  tell — 
All  that  the  scholar  had  reveal’d 
Could  tell,  but  that  his  lips  were  seal’d 
By  solemn  vows,  which  never  yet 
Did  the  worst- fallen  priest  forget  ; 

Yet,  by  the  edict  of  the  dead, 

Some  passages  were  register’d 
Amid  the  abbey’s  psalter,  where, 

In  Gaelic  letters  round  and  fair, 

An  after  age’s  curious  eye 
Alighting,  clear’d  the  mystery. 


Hear,  then,  the  tale,  not  idly  told — 

A story  new  as  well  as  old — 

A song  of  suffering  and  of  fame, 

Of  false  and  true,  of  pride  and  shame. 

Here  ends  the  author’s  MS.  and  Part  I.  in  the  first  rough  draft.  The  plan  of 
this  noble  poem  he  had  mapped  out  as  follows : “ Part  II. — Glen-Manna ; the 
eve  of  victory  ; the  morning  after  the  battle ; Brian’s  apparition  in  the  tent  of 
Maelsuthain ; advises  him  to  retire  from  the  world ; the  scholar  departs  from 
the  camp  of  the  victorious  king  in  search  of  Penance  and  Peace. 

“ Part  III  —His  life  at  Irrelagh  ; his  literary  work ; his  school  and  scholars  ; the 
three  Donalds ; the  strange  lady ; the  three  Donalds  wanted ; they  depart,  beg 
his  blessing,  and  leave  to  visit  the  Land  of  our  Redemption. 

“ Part  IV. — Apparition  of  the  three  doves ; their  message  and  warning ; Mael- 
suthain’s  resolution,  repentance,  and  death.’’ 

Had  the  author  lived  to  complete  it,  the  “ Sinful  Scholar  ” would  have  been 
one  of  the  finest  poems  in  Irish  literature. — Ed. 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS.  255 


THE  LANDING  OF  THE  NORMANS. 

I. 

“ Alas  ! for  this  day, 

The  accursed  of  all  years ! 

In  Banna’s  broad  bay 
The  invader  appears  ; 

The  pennant  of  Cardigan 
Threatens  the  land, 

And  the  sword  of  Fitzstephen 
Burns  red  in  his  hand. 

Sleep  no  more ! sleep  no  more ! 

Up,  Lagenians,  from  sleep ! 

While  you  dream  on  the  shore 
They  march  o’er  the  deep  ! 

ii 

Wake,  Cymri  and  Ostman  ! 

Wake,  Cahrrians  ! and  gather 
Your  strength  on  the  plain, 

Arm,  brother  ! arm,  father  ! 

For  our  homes,  for  our  lives, 

For  the  fair  fields  of  Carmen, 

For  the  love  of  our  wives, 

Down,  down  on  the  Norman ! 

Sleep  no  more ! sleep  no  more ! eta 

hi. 

Now,  when  Cardigan’s  chief 
And  his  penniless  peers 
Look  doubtfully  forth 
From  their  rampart  of  spears, 


256 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEO  END  ARY  POEMS. 


+ 


In  the  very  first  hour, 

Ere  a camp  they  inclose, 

Go,  shatter  the  power 
Of  our  insolent  foes  ! 

Sleep  no  more ! sleep  no  more  ! etc. 


EP ITHALAMIUM. 

THE  BRIDAL  OF  EVA  JI'MURROGH. 

I. 

“ Go  forth  into  the  fields, 

Bid  the  flow’rs  to  our  feasts, 

With  the  broad  leaves  which,  as  shields, 

Guard  the  noon-heat  from  their  breasts  ; 

Bid  the  nobly-born  rose, 

And  the  lily  of  the  valley, 

And  the  primrose  of  the  sheep-walk, 

And  the  violet  from  the  valley — 

Where  the  order’d  trees  in  ranks 
Rise  up  from  the  river’s  banks, 

Bid  them  all — one  and  all — 

To  our  garland-hidden  hall — 

To  the  wedding  of  the  worthy,  to  the  bridal  of  the  races — 
Bid  the  humble  and  the  noble,  the  virtues  and  the  graces. 


n. 

“ Go  forth  unto  the  shrines, 

Lift  up  your  voices  there  ; 

Lay  your  off’rings,  more  than  mines, 
And  the  prince  of  off’rings,  prayer  ; 
Beg  our  Lady  of  the  Isle, 

Where  King  Dermid’s  tithes  are  tidal, 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS . 


257 


From  her  holy  height  to  smile 
On  this  rare  and  noble  bridal. 

From  St.  Brendan’s  to  St.  Bees’, 

All  along  the  Irish  seas, 

Shore  of  shrines,  pray  a prayer 
For  the  valiant  and  fair, 

For  the  wedding  of  the  worthy,  the  bridal  of  the  races  1 


in. 

“ Seek  out  the  sons  of  song  ; 

Let  them  know  who  hath  been  wed, 

That,  amid  the  festive  throng, 

Their  seats  are  at  the  head  ; 

Bid  them  come  with  harp  and  lay, 

And  mellow  mighty  horn, 

To  charm  the  night  away 
And  to  ’gratulate  the  morn. 

For  the  Lady  Eva’s  sake, 

Royal  largess  they  must  take, 

At  the  wedding  of  the  worthy,  the  bridal  of  the  races  I 


iv. 

“ They  are  come ! they  are  here ! 

The  music  and  the  flowers, 

The  blessings  far  and  near, 

Have  a sound  of  summer  showers  ; 

Here  Beauty’s  conscious  eyes 
Flash  with  emulous  desire  ; 

Ah  ! how  many  a gallant  dies 
In  this  mortal  arrowy  fire ! 

What  lessons  by  this  light 
May  young  lovers  read  to-night, 

In  the  wedding  of  the  worthy,  the  bridal  of  the  races ! 


258  HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 

DE  GOURGY’S  PILGRIMAGE .»« 

“ I’m  weary  of  your  elegies,  your  keenings  and  compLints, 
We’ve  heard  no  strain  this  blessed  night  but  histories  of 
•saints  ; 

Sing  us  some  deed  of  daring — of  the  living  or  the  dead !” 

So  Earl  Gerald,  in  Maynooth,  to  the  Bard  Neelan  said. 

Answer’d  the  Bard  Neelan — “ Oh,  Earl,  I will  obey  ; 

And  I will  show  you  that  you  have  no  cause  for  what  you 
say  ; 

A warrior  may  be  valiant,  and  love  holiness  also, 

As  did  the  Norman  Courcy,  in  this  country  long  ago.” 

Few  men  could  match  De  Courcy  on  saddle  or  on  sward, 
The  ponderous  mace  he  valued  more  than  any  Spanish 
sword  ; 

On  many  a field  of  slaughter  scores  of  men  lay  smash’d  and 
stark, 

And  the  victors,  as  they  saw  them,  said — “ Lo ! John  De 
Courcy’s  mark !” 

De  Lacy  was  his  deadly  foe,  through  envy  of  his  fame  ; 

He  laid  foul  ambush  for  his  life,  and  stigmatized  his  name  ; 
But  the  gallant  John  De  Courcy  kept  still  his  mace  at  hand, 
And  rode,  unfearing  feint  or  force,  across  his  rival’s  land. 

He’d  made  a vow,  for  some  past  sins,  a pilgrimage  to  pay 
At  Patrick’s  tomb,  and  there  to  bide  a fortnight  and  a day  ; 
And  now  amid  the  cloisters  the  disarmed  giant  walks, 

And  with  the  brown  beads  in  his  hand,  from  cross  to  cross 
he  stalks. 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEO  END  ARY  POEMS. 


259 


News  came  to  Hugo  Lacy  of  the  penance  of  the  knight, 

And  he  rose  and  sent  his  murderers  from  Durrogh  forth  by 
night ; 

A score  of  mighty  Meathian  men,  proof  guarded  for  the  strife, 
And  he  has  sworn  them,  man  by  man,  to  take  De  Courcy’s 
life. 

’Twas  twilight  in  Downpatrick  town,  the  pilgrim  in  the  porch 
Sat,  faint  with  fasting  and  with  prayer,  before  the  darken’d 
church — 

When  suddenly  he  heard  a sound  upon  the  stony  street — 

A sound,  familiar  to  his  ears,  of  battle-horses’  feet. 

He  stepp’d  forth  to  a hillock,  where  an  oaken  cross  it  stood, 
And  looking  forth,  he  lean’d  upon  the  monumental  wood. 
“’Tis  he!  ’tis  he!”  the  foremost  cried  : “ ’tis  well  you  came 
to  shrive, 

For  another  sun,  De  Courcy,  you  shall  never  see  alive !” 

Then  roused  the  soften’d  heart  within  the  pilgrim’s  sober 
weeds — 

He  thought  upon  his  high  renown,  and  all  his  knightly  deeds; 
He  felt  the  spirit  swell  within  his  undefended  breast, 

And  his  courage  rose  the  faster  that  his  sins  had  been  con- 
fess’d. 

“ I am  no  dog  to  perish  thus ! no  deer  to  couch  at  bay  ! 
Assassins ! ware*  the  life  you  seek,  and  stand  not  in  my 
way !’’ 

He  pluck’d  the  tall  cross  from  its  root,  and  waving  it  around, 
He  dash’d  the  master-murderer  stark — lifeless  to  the  ground. 

As  row  on  row  they  press’d  within  the  deadly  ring  he  made, 
Twelve  of  the  score  in  their  own  gore  within  his  reach  he 
laid; 

* “ Then  ware  a rising  tempest  on  the  main.” — Dryden . 

1 


260 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS . 


The  rest  in  panic  terror  ran  to  horse  and  fled  away, 

And  left  the  Knight  De  Courcy  at  the  bloody  cross  to  pray. 

“ And  now,”  quoth  Neelan  to  the  Earl,  “ I did  your  will  obey; 
Have  I not  shown  you  had  no  cause  for  what  I heard  you 
say? 

“ Faith,  Neelan,”  answer’d  Gerald,  “ your  holy  man,  Sir  John, 
Did  bear  his  cross  right  manfully,  so  much  we  have  to  own.” 


THE  PILGRIMAGE  OF  SIR  ULGARG .” 

No  supple  ash  in  Cavan  Wood 
Was  fairer  to  the  eye — 

Not  clearer  on  Lough  Oughter’s  flood 
Was  pictured  the  blue  sky, 

Than  in  the  form  and  in  the  breast 
Of  Ulgarg,  God  and  grace  had  rest. 

In  warlike  camp,  beneath  the  lead 
Of  Breffni’s  potent  flag — 

In  festal  hall  or  sportive  shade, 

On  stormy  sea  or  crag, 

’Fore  Ulgarg,  none  of  all  his  race 
Could  win  by  worth  the  ’vantage-place. 

One  hope  he  held  from  boyhood’s  dawn 
Till  manhood’s  rounded  prime — 

That  he  might  live  to  look  upon 
The  fields  of  Palestine — 

That  he  his  swimming  eyes  might  set 
On  Sion,  Sinai,  Olivet. 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


261 


In  vain  the  fairest  of  the  land, 

Where  beauty  ever  reigns, 

Wove  for  his  youth  love’s  rosy  band 
To  bind  him  to  their  plains  ; 

In  vain  of  glory  sung  his  bards, 

His  footsteps  yearn’d  to  trace  our  Lord’s. 

Free  to  command  his  after  fate, 

He  rose,  and  left  behind 
Glory  and  beauty,  place  and  state, 

For  only  sea  and  wind — 

For  palmer’s  staff,  and  mourner’s  weed, 
And  desert  thirst,  and  feet  that  bleed. 

What  years  he  spent  in  Palestine 
It  may  not  now  be  known, 

But  all  its  hills  and  caves  divine 
He  knew  them  as  his  own — 

Christ’s  route  he  traversed  everywhere, 
From  the  manger  to  the  sepulchre. 

Bound  home,  at  last — ’twas  eventide, 

The  sun  was  in  the  West, 

When  calmly  by  the  Jordan’s  side 
He  sat  him  down  to  rest  ; 

And  looking  toward  the  crimson  sky, 

A patriot  tear  suffused  his  eye. 

He  pray’d — he  slept — the  midnight  moon 
Beheld  him  where  he  lay; 

The  night  winds  seized  his  mutter’d  breath. 
And  flew  with  it  away; 

Morn  rose  sublime  on  Jordan’s  tide, 

Sir  Ulgarg  still  lav  by  its  side. 


262 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


Another  moon,  and  night,  and  morn 
Pass’d  on,  but  never  more 
Arose  that  palmer,  travel-worn — 
His  pilgrimage  was  o’er. 

By  a chance-passing  Christian  hand, 
His  grave  was  made  in  Holy  Land. 


THE  PENITENCE  OF  DON  DIEGO  RIAS. 

A LEGEND  OF  LOUGH  DERG.58 

I. 

There  was  a knight  of  Spain — Diego  Bias, 

Noble  by  four  descents,  vain,  rich,  and  young, 
Much  woe  he  wrought,  or  the  tradition  lie  is, 

Which  lived  of  old  the  Castilians  among  ; 

His  horses  bore  the  palm  the  kingdom  over, 

His  plume  was  tallest,  costliest  his  sword, 

The  proudest  maidens  wish’d  him  as  a lover, 

The  Caballeros  all  revered  his  word. 

n. 

But  ere  his  day’s  meridian  came,  his  spirit 

Fell  sick,  grew  palsied  in  his  breast,  and  pined,— 
He  fear’d  Christ’s  kingdom  he  could  ne’er  inherit, 
The  causes  wherefore  too  well  he  divined  ; 
Where’er  he  turns  his  sins  are  always  near  him, 
Conscience  still  holds  her  mirror  to  his  eyes, 

Till  those  who  long  had  envied  came  to  fear  him, 

To  mock  his  clouded  brow  and  wint’ry  sighs. 


hi. 


Alas ! the  sins  of  youth  are  as  a chain 
Of  iron,  swiftly  let  down  to  the  deep. 


263 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 

How  far  we  feel  not —till  when,  we’d  raise ’t  again 
We  pause  amid  the  weary  work  and  weep. 

Ah,  it  is  sad  a-down  Life’s  stream  to  see 
So  many  aged  toilers  so  distress’d, 

A nd  near  the  source — a thousand  forms  of  glee 
fitting  the  shackle  to  Youth’s  glowing  breast ! 

IV. 

He  sought  Peace  in  the  city  where  she  dwells  ^ot, 

He  wooed  her  amid  woodlands  all  in  vain, 

He  searches  through  the  valleys,  but  he  tells  not 
The  secret  of  his  quest  to  priest  or  swain, 

Until,  despairing  evermore  of  pleasure, 

He  leaves  his  land,  and  sails  to  far  Peru, 

There,  stands  uncharm’d  in  caverns  of  treasure, 

And  weeps  on  mountains  heavenly  high  and  blue. 

v. 

Incessant  in  his  ear  rang  this  plain  warning — 

“ Diego,  as  thy  soul,  thy  sorrow  lives 
He  hears  the  untired  voice,  night,  noon,  and  morning, 
Yet  understanding  not,  unresting  grieves. 

One  eve,  a purer  vision  seized  him,  then  he 

Yow’d  to  Lough  Derg,  an  humble  pilgrimage — 

The  virtues  of  that  shrine  were  known  to  many, 

And  saving  held  even  in  that  skeptic  age. 


t 


VI. 

With  one  sole  follower,  an  Esquire  trustful, 

He  pass’d  the  southern  cape  which  sailors  fear, 

And  eastward  held,  meanwhile  his  vain  and  lustful 
Past  works  more  loathsome  to  his  soul  appear, 

Through  the  night-watches,  at  all  hours  o’  day, 

He  still  was  wTakeful  as  the  pilot,  and 

^ 


264 


historical  and  legendary  poems. 


For  grace,  his  vow  to  keep,  doth  always  pray, 
And  for  his  death  to  lie  in  the  saints’  land. 


VII. 

But  ere  his  eyes  beheld  the  Irish  shore, 

Diego  died.  Much  gold  he  did  ordain 
To  God  and  Santiago — furthermore, 

His  Esquire  plighted,  ere  he  went  to  Spain, 
To  journey  to  the  Refuge  of  the  Lake, 

Before  Saint  Patrick’s  solitary  shrine, 

A nine  days’  vigil  for  his  rest  to  make, 

Living  on  bitter  bread  and  penitential  wine.8® 


VIII. 

The  vassal  vow’d  ; but,  ah  ! how  seldom  pledges 
Given  to  the  dying,  to  the  dead,  are  held ! 

The  Esquire  reach’d  the  shore,  where  sand  and  sedge  is 
O’er  melancholy  hills,  by  paths  of  eld  ; 

Treeless  and  houseless  was  the  prospect  round, 
Rock-strewn  and  boisterous  the  lake  before  ; 

A Charon-shape  sat  in  a skiff  a-ground — 

The  pilgrim  turn’d,  and  left  the  sacred  shore. 


IX. 

That  night  he  lay  a-bed  hard  by  the  Erne, — 

The  island-spangled  lake — but  could  not  sleep — 

When  lo ! beside  him,  pale,  and  sad,  and  stern, 

Stood  his  dead  master  risen  from  the  deep. 

“ Arise,”  he  said,  “ and  come.”  From  the  hostelrie 
And  over  the  bleak  hills  he  led  the  sleeper, 

And  when  they  reach’d  Derg’s  shore,  “ Get  in  with  me,” 

He  cried, — “ nor  sink  my  soul  in  torments  deeper.” 

: r 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


265 


x. 

The  dead  man  row’d  the  boat,  the  living  steer’d, 

Each  in  his  pallor  sinister,  until 
The  Isle  of  Pilgrimage  they  duly  near’d — 

“Now  hie  thee  forth,  and  work  thy  master’s  will!’’ 

So  spoke  the  dead,  and  vanish’d  o’er  the  lake, 

The  Squire  pursued  his  course,  and  gain’d  the  shrine, 
There,  nine  days’  vigil  duly  he  did  make, 

Living  on  bitter  bread  and  penitential  wine. 

XI. 

The  tenth  eve  shone  in  solemn,  starry  beauty, 

As  he,  rejoicing,  o’er  the  old  paths  came, 

Light  was  bis  heart  from  its  accomplished  duty, 

All  was  forgotten,  even  the  latest  shame — 

When  these  brief  words,  some  disembodied  voice 
Spoke  near  him,  “ Oh,  keep  sacred,  evermore, 

Word,  pledge,  and  vow,  so  may  you  still  rejoice, 

And  live  among  the  Just  when  Time  is  o’er!” 


A LEGEND  OF  DUNLUCE  CASTLE ™ 

The  northern  winds  howl’d  through  the  sky, 
Above  Dunluce’s  Tower, 

And  the  raven  with  a bitter  cry 

Wing’d  away  from  her  spray-wet  bower  ; 
And  the  white  foam,  as  it  trickled  back 
To  the  sea,  in  a stream  of  light 
Appear’d,  as  the  first  ray  of  the  morn 
Stealing  through  the  clouds  of  night. 

And  though  without  the  storm  raged  high. 
And  ail  was  dark  and  dim, 


J 

266  HISTORICAL  AND  LEOENDARY  POEMS. 

Fair  dames  and  chiefs  held  revelry 
That  sea-beat  pile  within  ; 

And  if  they  heard  the  tempest  roar, 

They  little  reck’d,  I ween — 

It  told  them  to  enjoy  the  more 
Their  own  bright  festive  scene. 

But  there  was  one  within  that  pile 
Whose  heart  was  far  from  light, 

For  well  she  knew  from  Rathlin’s  Isle 
Her  lover  came  that  night. 

She  left  the  heartless  revelry 
Unnoticed  and  unknown, 

And  from  the  lonely  watch-tower  high 
She  gazed  upon  the  gloom. 

Fierce  howl’d  the  blast  on  the  rocky  shore, 

And  shook  the  cavern’d  cliff, 

And  Ella’s  soul  all  hope  gave  o’er — 

Oh ! could  it  spare  his  skiff  ? 

The  sea-sprites  groan'd  and  the  fortress  moan’d, 

As  the  roaring  north  winds  pass’d, 

And  the  watch-towers  shook  like  a reed  by  the  brook 
In  December’s  piercing  blast. 


And  beneath  the  tower,  from  every  cave, 

Such  sounds  came  bursting  forth 
As  the  Sea-King  sends  from  his  frozen  grave 
In  the  gulfs  of  the  sunless  North, — 

When,  lo ! on  the  wave  crest  sparkling  white 
A little  boat  she  spied, 

And  her  heart’s  blood  warmed  with  delight — 
“ My  bride  ! great  heavens ! my  bride !” 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 


267 


I 


The  wild  winds  raged  more  furious  still — 

Swept  the  watch-tower  from  the  rock — 

The  waves  dash’d  high  above  the  hill — 

His  boat  sank  in  the  shock  ; 

He  rose  again,  and  through  the  gloom 
He  saw  his  long-loved  maid, 

And  though  the  tempest  was  in  its  noon, 

Still  was  he  not  dismay’d. 

He  clasp’d  her  close,  and  through  the  foam 
He  cleft  with  a hero’s  stroke  ; 

He  whisper’d  hope,  but  the  billows’  moan 
Swept  away  the  words  he  spoke. 

The  sea  had  nursed  his  infant  years, 

Had  given  his  boyhood  joy, 

The  tempest  to  him  had  sport,  not  fears, 

And  he  hush’d  his  Ella’s  sigh. 

A wave  arose,  and  on  its  crest 
It  bore  them  to  the  shore, 

And  it  flung  them  far,  where  some  falcon’s  nest 
Had  been  in  days  of  yore. 

The  chief  clung  fast  unto  the  rock — 

“We’re  safe,  my  bonnie  bride!” 

Then,  wearied  and  worn  by  the  struggle’s  shock, 
He  fainted  by  her  side. 


DEATH  OF  ART  M'MTJRROUGH.n 

I. 

From  the  king’s  home  rose  a hum 
Like  the  rising  of  a swarm, 

And  it  spread  round  Ross,  and  grew 
Loud  and  boding  as  a storm  ; 


268 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


And  from  the  many-gated  town  pass’d  Easchlaghs62  in  affright, 
Pale  as  the  morning  hours  when  rushing  forth  from  night, 
And  north,  east,  south,  and  westward,  as  they  spread, 

They  cried,  “ The  king  is  dead ! the  king  is  dead l” 

H. 

As  the  mountain  echoes  mimic 
The  mort  of  the  bugle  horn, 

So  far  and  farther  o’er  the  land 
The  deadly  tale  is  borne  ; 

Echo  answers  echo  from  wood,  and  rath,  and  stream — 
Easchlagh  follows  easchlagh,  like  horrors  in  a dream  ; 

And  when  entreated  to  repose,  they  only  said, 

In  accents  woe-begone  and  brief,  “ The  king  is  dead!” 


m. 

The  news  was  brought  to  Offaly, 

To  the  Calvach  in  his  hall  ;ra 
He  said,  “ Still’d  be  the  harp  and  flute — 

We  now  are  orphans  all.” 

The  news  was  brought  to  O’Tuathal,  in  Imayle  ; 

He  said,  “We  have  lost  the  bulwark  of  the  Grael 
And  his  chosen  men  a-south  to  the  royal  wake  he  led — 
Sighing,  “ The  king  is  dead  ! the  king  is  dead  !” 

IV. 

To  O’Brin  in  Ballincor, 

To  O’Nolan  in  Forth  it  came, 

To  MacDavid  in  Riavach,64 
And  all  mourn’d  the  same  ; 

They  said,  “ We  have  lost  the  chief  champion  of  our  land, 
The  king  of  the  stoutest  heart  and  strongest  hand  ;” 

The  hills  of  the  four  counties  that  night  for  joy  were  red, 
And  boastfully  their  Dublin  bells  chimed  out,  “ The  king  is 
dead  P’ 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


269 


v. 

It  was  told  in  Kilkenny, 

And  the  Ormond  flag  flew  out, 

That  had  hid  among  the  cobwebs 
Since  the  earl’s  Callan  rout ; 

But  the  friars  of  Irishtown  they  grieved  for  him  full  sore, 
And  Innistioge  and  Jerpoint  may  long  his  loss  deplore. 
From  Clones  south  to  Bannow  the  holy  bells  they  toll, 
And  every  monk  is  praying  for  his  benefactor’s  soul. 


VI. 

For  ages  in  the  eastward 
Such  a wake  was  never  seen; 

Since  Brian’s  death,  in  Erin 
Such  mourning  had  not  been  ; 

And  as  the  clans  to  St.  Mullins  bore  the  fleshly  part 
That  was  earthy  and  had  perished  of  King  Art — 

The  crying  of  the  keeners  was  heard  by  the  last  man, 
Though  he  was  three  miles  off  when  the  burial  rite  began. 

VII. 

“ Mourn,  mourn,”  they  said,  “ ye  chieftains, 

From  Riavach  and  from  Forth  ;65 

Mourn,  ye  dynasts  of  the  lowlands, 

And  ye  Tanists  of  the  North  ; 

The  noblest  man  that  was  left  us  here  to-day, 

In  the  churchyard  of  his  fathers  we  make  his  bed  of  clay — 
Unlucky  is  this  year  above  all  years — 

His  life  was  more  to  us  than  ten  thousand  tested  spears. 

VIII. 

“No  ash-tree  in  Shillelah 

Was  more  comely  to  the  eye — 

And,  like  the  heavens  above  us, 

He  was  good  as  he  was  high. 


i 


270 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


The  taker  of  rich  tributes,  the  queller  of  our  strife, 

The  open-handed  giver,  his  life  to  us  was  life. 

O Art ! why  did  you  leave  us  ? Oh  ! even  from  the  grave, 
Could  you  not  return  to  live  for  us  you  would  have  died  to 
save? 

XI. 

“ When  we  think  on  your  actions — 

How  against  you,  all  in  vain, 

The  king’s  son,  and  the  king  himself 
Of  London,  cross’d  the  main — 

When  we  think  of  the  battle  of  Athcro  and  the  day 
When  Roger  Mortimer,  at  Kells,  fell  in  the  fiery  fray, 

They  chant  the  De  Profundis,  and  we  cannot  help  but  cry — 

* Defender  of  your  nation  ! oh,  why  did  you  die  ?’ 


x. 

“ If  death  would  have  hostages, 

A million  such  as  we, 

To  bring  you  back  to  Erin, 

Oh  ! a cheap  exchange  ’twould  be  ; 

But  silent  as  the  midnight,  and  white  as  your  own  hair, 
With  its  sixty  years  of  snow,  O king ! you  lie  there — 
Your  lip  at  last  is  pale — at  last  is  closed  your  eye — 

O terror  of  the  Saxons  ! Art,  why  did  you  die  ?” 


Thus  by  the  gaping  grave 
They  mourn’d  about  his  bier, 

Challenging  with  clamorous  grief 
The  dead  that  could  not  hear  ; 

Then  slowly  and  sadly  they  laid  him  down  to  rest, 

His  sword  beside  him  laid,  and  his  cross  on  his  breast. 


And  each  took  his  own  way  with  drooping  heart  and  head, 
Sighing,  “ The  king  is  dead ! the  king  is  dead !” 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


271 


AVRAN. 

His  grave  is  in  St.  Mullins, 

But  to  pilgrim  eyes  unknown — 

Unmark’d  by  mournful  yew, 

Unchronicled  in  stone  ; 

His  bones  are  with  his  people’s,  his  clay  with  common  clay, 
His  memory  in  the  night  that  lies  behind  the  hills  of  day, 
Where  hundreds  of  our  gallant  dead  await 
The  long-foretold,  redeem’d,  and  honor’d  fate.66 


A BALLAD  OF  BANNOW. 

I. 

Stretch’d  recumbent  by  the  sea-side,  in  the  bright  midsum- 
mer tide. 

With  the  volume  of  Our  Poets  lying  open  at  my  side, 

From  the  full  urn  of  remembrance  pressing  on  my  heart — I 
sigh’d. 


n. 

’Twas  the  storied  shore  of  Carmen*;  here,  beneath  our  very 
feet, 

Bannow’s  buried  city  slumber’d  in  its  sandy  winding-sheet — 

Yonder  ripple  of  the  sea-surf  marks  the  once  o’er- crowded 
street. 

m. 

Heath,  with  blossom  on  the  mountain,  and  the  squat,  un- 
sightly thorn, 

Will  put  forth  its  stainless  blossom,  perfuming  the  breath  of 
morn — 

But  for  this  long-buried  city,  spring  can  nevermore  return 

* Wexford, 


272 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


IV. 

On  this  coast,  when  winter  thunders,  woe  unto  the  ship  that 
drives — 

One  huge  billow  combing  over,  might  engulf  ten  thousand 
lives; 

Vain,  oh!  vain  as  dreams  of  madmen,  is  the  mortal  strength 
that  strives. 


v. 

Yet  is  not  the  buried  city  saddest  of  these  thoughts  to  me, 

Nor  the  stranded,  crewless  vessel,  torn  and  toss’d  up  from 
the  sea; 

There  are  heavier  griefs  to  mourn — deem  ye  not  what  they 
may  be  ? 

VI. 

Yonder,  on  that  breezy  sand-bar,  where  the  thin  bent  scarce 
can  grow, 

First  on  soil  or  strand  of  Erin,  stood  the  Anglo-Norman  foe, 

And  my  mind  is  with  their  landing,  ages,  ages,  long  ago. 


vn. 

High  and  dry  the  Flemish  bottoms  of  Fitzstephen  here 
were  drawn: 

Off  to  Ferns — to  false  King  Dermod — their  ambassador  has 
gone; 

Shore  and  sea  alike  deserted,  all  for  days  they  look’d  upon. 

VIII. 

Who  could  dream  from  such  a vanguard  such  a following 
should  come  ? 

Veterans  of  France  and  England,  bless’d  in  Palestine  and 
Rome — 

Who  would  dream  the  night  that  slumbers  under  yonder 
streak  of  foam  ? 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS, 


273 


IX. 

Peace  be  with  our  fearless  fathers ! never  let  the  breath  of 
fame 

Lightly  pass  your  lips,  to  darken  of  their  gallant  deeds  the 
fame ; 

)imly  now  we  see  the  actors  in  their  fierce  imperial  game. 

x. 

Here  no  Battle  Abbey  rises — here  no  Falaise  Pillar  stands — 
For,  as  ebbs  the  waves  of  ocean  o’er  these  historic  strands, 
So  the  surge  of  battle  waver’d  o’er  our  ancestral  lands. 


XI. 

If  our  fathers  felt  the  prowess  of  the  steel-clad  Norman  host, 
Little  had  the  valiant  stranger  in  the  after  war  to  boast; 
’Twixt  the  tides  and  ’twixt  the  races,  leave  we  the  disputed 
coast. 


XII. 

Three  things  stand:  Throughout  our  borders,  still  the  Gaelic 
race  is  found; 

Manly  stem  and  lovely  blossom  flourish  on  the  ancient 
ground; 

And  the  dear  faith  of  our  fathers — rooted  deep  as  Danaan 
mound. 

XIII. 

Near  the  tomb  of  buried  Bannow,  with  the  Poets  at  my  side, 

Such  the  changing  thoughts  that  found  me  in  the  bright 
midsummer  tide — 

Past  and  present,  hope  and  solace,  patriot  grief  and  patriot 
pride, 


274 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS . 


THE  PRAISE  OF  MARGARET  O’ CARROLL  OF  OF  FALL  Y.^ 

I. 

The  myriad  shafts  of  the  morning  sun  had  routed  the  wood- 
land fays, 

And  in  the  forest’s  green  saloons  danced  the  victorious  rays; 

Birds,  like  Brendans  in  the  promised  land,  chanted  matins 
to  the  morn, 

And  the  larks  sprung  up  with  their  chorus  broods  from  the 
yellow  fields  of  corn. 

In  cloth  of  gold,  like  a queen  new-come  out  of  the  royal 
wood, 

On  the  round-proud-white-walled  rath  Margaret  O’Carroll 
stood. 

That  day  came  guests  to  Rath  Imayn68  from  afar,  from 
beyond  the  sea — 

Bards  and  Brehons  of  Albyn  and  Erin — to  feast  in  Offally. 

n. 

With  the  Lady  Margaret  are  her  maidens,  comely  to  the 
sight — 

Ah ! how  their  eyes  will  thrill  the  harps  and  hearts  of  men 
to-night ! 

And  in  their  midst,  like  a pillar  old  in  a garden  of  roses, 
stands 

Gilla-n-noamh  M‘Egan,  the  Brehon  of  Offally’s  lands ; 

His  sallow  brow  like  a vellum  book  with  mystic  lines  is 
traced, 

But  his  eye  is  as  an  arrow,  and  his  form  as  a bow  unbraced, 

And  he  holds  in  his  hand  a book  wherein  he  writes  each 
learned  name, 

And  these  were  the  men  of  lore  who  to  this  feast  at  Rath 
Imayn  came. 


T 


HISTORIC M.  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


i_ 

275 

m. 

First,  Mselyn  O’Mulconry  comes,  Arch-Brelion  of  the  West, 

Who  gives  dominion  to  O’Connor  on  Carnfraoich’s  crest; 

And  with  Mtelyn  comes  iVTFirbiss,  from  Tyrawley’s  hills  afar, 

Whose  learning  shines,  in  Erris  glens,  like  a lamp  or  a lofty 
star; 

And  O’Daly,  from  Finvarra,  renown’d  in  Dan,69  appears, 

Whose  fame,  like  the  circling  oak,  grows  wider  with  his 
years; 

And  with  them  is  O’Clery,  from  Kilbarron’s  castled  steep, 

Whose  hearthstone  covers  the  sea-bird’s  nest  above  the 
foamy  deep. 

iv. 

And  lo ! where  comes  M‘Curtin,  sweet  singer  of  the  South, 

And  O’Bruadin,  with  keen  thoughts  that  swarm  out  of  a 
honied  mouth, 

And  O’Doran,  Leinster’s  upright  judge,  and  MacNeogh  of 
the  lays, 

Whose  tales  can  make  December  nights  gayer  than  July  days, 

And  Nial  Dal  O’Higgin,  whose  words  of  power  can  drain 
The  life  out  of  the  heart  he  hates,  and  the  reason  from  the 
brain,70 

And  Cymric  bards  from  Cymric  vales  to  the  poet  tryst  have 
come, 

And  many  a Scottish  rhymer  from  his  Caledonian  home. 

v. 

The  Calvagh  at  the  outer  gate,  he  bids  them  welcome  all, 

The  Brehon  meets  them  at  the  door,  and  leads  them  up  the 
hall, 

The  lady  on  the  dais  sits,  amid  her  rich  awards, 

Goblets,  and  golden  harps,  and  ancient  books  for  studious 
bards. 

________ — fr- 


276 


HIS  TO  UIG A L AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


For  them  in  the  green  meadow-lands  a thousand  horses  feed, 
And  a golden  bit  and  a gilded  rein  hangs  in  stall  for  every 
steed, 

And  the  glorious  eyes  of  Irish  girls  are  glancing  round  her, 
too — 

Guerdons,  for  which  the  poet-soul  its  noblest  deeds  can  do. 


VI. 


Over  the  fields  of  Erin,  war  horns  may  blow  to-day, 

Many  a man  in  tower  and  town  may  don  his  war  array, 

The  mountain  tops  of  Erin  red  alarm-fires  may  light, 

But  no  foot  shall  leave  that  hall  of  peace  for  the  track  of 
blood  to-night. 

To-morrow  as  to-day  shall  rise  in  melody  and  peace, 

The  Mass  be  said,  the  cup  be  fill’d,  nor  the  evening  revels 
cease — 

For  Margaret,  like  Our  Lady’s  self,  unto  the  troubled  land, 
Brings  quiet  in  her  holy  smile,  and  healing  in  her  hand. 


vn. 

It  is  not  that  her  father  is  renown’d  through  Innisfail, 

It  is  not  that  her  lord  is  hail’d  the  sentinel  of  the  Gael, 

It  is  not  that  her  daughter  is  the  wife  of  the  O’Neil, 

It  is  not  that  her  first-born’s  name  strikes  terror  through 
the  pale, 

It  is  not  all  her  riches,  but  her  virtues  that  I praise; 

She  made  the  bardic  spirit  strong  to  face  the  evil  days, 

To  the  princes  of  a feudal  age  she  taught  the  might  of  love, 
And  her  name,  though  woman’s,  shall  be  scroll’d  their  war- 
rior names  above. 


VIII. 

Low  lie  the  oaks  of  Offally — Hath  Imayn  is  a wreck; 

Fallen  are  the  chiefs  of  Offally — Death’s  yoke  on  every  neck; 


-4 

HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS . 277 

Da  Sinchel’s71  feast  no  more  is  held  for  holy  in  the  land, 

No  queen-like  Margaret  welcomes  now  the  drooping  bardic 
band, 

No  nights  of  minstrelsy  are  now  like  the  Irish  nights  of  old, 

No  septs  of  singers  such  as  then  M ‘Egan’s  book  enroll’d; 

But  the  name  of  Margaret  O’Carroll,  who  taught  the  might 
of  love, 

Shall  shine  in  Ireland’s  annals  even  minstrel  name  above. 


MARGARET  0 ’CARROLL.™ 

I. 

Of  bards  and  beadsmen  far  and  near,  hers  was  the  name  of 
names — 

The  lady  fair  of  Offally — the  flower  of  Leinster  dames, 

And  she  has  join’d  the  pilgrim  host  for  the  citie  of  Saint 
J ames. 

n. 

It  was  Calvagh,  Lord  of  Offally,  walk’d  wretchedly  apart, 
Within  his  moated  garden,  with  sorrow  at  his  heart, 

And  now  he  vow’d  to  heav’n,  and  now  he  cursed  his  fate — 
That  he  had  not  forbidden  that  far  journey  ere  too  late. 

hi. 

“ Why  did  I not  remember  ” — ’twas  thus  he  wish’d  in  vain — 
“The  many  waves  that  roll  between  Momonia’s  cliffs  and 
Spain  ? 

Why  did  I not  remember,  how,  fill’d  with  bitter  hate, 

To  waylay  Christian  pilgrims  the  Moorish  pirates  wait?” 


IV. 


He  thought  of  Lady  Margaret,  so  fair,  so  fond,  so  pure, 
A captive  in  the  galley  of  some  Christ-denying  Moor  ; 


278  HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 

He  thought  of  all  that  might  befal,  until  his  sole  intent 
Was  to  gallop  to  the  southward  and  take  the  way  she  went. 

y. 

The  noon  was  dark,  the  bitter  blast  went  sighingly  along, 
The  sky  hung  low,  and  chill’d  to  death  the  warder’s  snatch 
of  song ; 

The  lymph  flag  round  the  flagstaff  lay  folded  close  and  furl’d, 
And  all  was  gloom  and  solitude  upon  the  outer  world. 

VI. 

A rush  as  of  a javelin  cast,  the  startled  chieftain  heard, 

A glance — upon  the  castle-wall  a carrier-dove  appear’d ! 

A moment,  and  the  courier  had  flutter’d  to  his  breast, 

And  panting  lay  against  his  heart,  low  cooing  and  caress’d. 

vn. 

There  lay  a little  billet  beneath  the  stranger’s  wing — 

Bound  deftly  to  his  body  with  a perfumed  silken  string — 

By  night  and  day,  o’er  sea  and  shore,  the  carrier  had  flown, 
For  of  God’s  ways  so  manifold  each  creature  knows  its  own. 

VIII. 

He  press’d  the  billet  to  his  lips,  he  bless’d  it  on  his  knees — 
“ To  my  dear  lord  and  husband  : From  Compostella  these — 
We  have  arrived  in  health  and  peace,  thank  God  and  good 
Saint  James  ” — 

And  underneath  the  simple  lines,  the  lady’s  name  of  names. 

IX. 

“Now  blessings  on  thee,  carrier-dove!”  the  joyful  Calva’ 
cried  ; 

“ In  such  a flight  both  heart  and  wing  were  surely  sorely 
tried  ; 

True  image  of  thy  mistress  dear,  in  mercy’s  errand  bold, 

Thy  cage  shall  hang  in  her  own  bower,  all  barr’d  with  good 
red  gold. 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


279 


4> 


x. 

“ And  ever  on  thee,  while  thine  eyes  shall  open  to  the  sun, 

White-handed  girls  shall  wait  and  tend — my  own  undaunted 
one  ! 

And  when  thou  diest,  no  hand  but  hers  shall  lay  thee  in  the 
grave ! 

Brave  heart ! that  bore  her  errand  well  across  the  stormy 
wave.” 


RANDALL  MCDONALD. 

A LEGEND  OF  ANTRIM. 

SHOWING  HOW  RANDALL  M ‘DONALD  OF  LORN  WON  THE  LANDS  OF  ANTRIM 
AND  THEIR  LADY. 

The  Lady  of  Antrim  rose  with  the  morn, 

And  donn’d  her  grandest  gear  ; 

And  her  heart  beat  fast,  when  a sounding  horn 
Announced  a suitor  near  ; 

Hers  was  a heart  so  full  of  pride, 

That  love  had  little  room, 

Good  faith,  I would  not  wish  me  such  bride, 

For  all  her  beautiful  bloom. 

One  suitor  there  came  from  the  Scottish  shore, 

Long,  and  lithe,  and  grim  ; 

And  a younger  one  from  Dunluce  hoar, 

And  the  lady  inclined  to  him. 

“ But  harken  ye,  nobles  both,”  she  said, 

As  soon  as  they  sat  to  dine — 

“ The  hand  must  prove  its  chieftainry 
That  puttetli  a ring  on  mine. 

: r 


280 


HISTORICAL  ANI)  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


“But  not  in  the  lists  with  armed  hands, 

Must  this  devoir  be  done, 

Yet  he  who  wins  my  broad,  broad  lands 
Their  lady  may  count  as  won. 

Ye  both  were  born  upon  the  shore, — 

Were  bred  upon  the  sea, 

Now  let  me  see  you  ply  the  oar, 

For  the  land  you  love — and  me ! 

“ The  chief  that  first  can  reach  the  strand, 

May  mount  at  morn  and  ride, 

And  his  long  day’s  ride  shall  bound  his  land, 
And  I will  be  his  bride !” 

M'Quillan  felt  hope  in  every  vein, 

As  the  bold,  bright  lady  spoke — 

And  M‘Donald  glanced  over  his  rival  again, 

And  bow’d  with  a bargeman’s  stroke. 

’Tis  summer  upon  the  Antrim  shore — 

The  shore  of  shores  it  is — 

Where  the  white  old  rocks  deep  caves  arch  o’er, 
Unfathom’d  by  man  I wis — 

Where  the  basalt  breast  of  our  isle  flings  back 
The  Scandinavian  surge, 

To  howl  through  its  native  Scaggerack, 
Chanting  the  Yiking’s  dirge. 

’Tis  summer — the  long  white  lines  of  foam 
Boll  lazily  to  the  beach, 

And  man  and  maid  from  every  home 
Their  eyes  o’er  the  waters  stretch. 

On  Glenarm’s  lofty  battlements 
Sitteth  the  lady  fair, 

And  the  warm  west  wind  blows  softly 
Through  the  links  of  her  golden  hair. 


4 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  FORMS. 


281 


The  boats  in  the  distant  offing, 

Are  marshalTd  prow  to  prow; 

The  boatmen  cease  their  scoffing, 

And  bend  to  the  rowlocks  now; 

Like  glory-guided  steeds  they  start — 

Away  o’er  the  waves  they  bound  ; 

Each  rower  can  hear  the  beating  heart 
Of  his  brother  boatman  sound. 

Nearer ! nearer ! on  they  come — 

Row,  MDonald,  row ! 

For  Antrim’s  princely  castle  home, 

Its  lands,  and  its  lady,  row ! 

The  chief  that  first  can  grasp  the  strand 
May  mount  at  morn  and  ride, 

And  his  long  day’s  ride  shall  bound  his  land, 
And  she  shall  be  his  bride ! 

He  saw  his  rival  gain  apace, 

He  felt  the  spray  in  his  wake — 

He  thought  of  her  who  watch’d  the  race 
Most  dear  for  her  dowry  sake ! 

Then  he  drew  his  skein  from  out  its  sheath, 
And  lopt  off  his  left  hand, 

And  pale  and  fierce,  as  a chief  in  death, 

He  hurl’d  it  to  the  strand  ! 

“ The  chief  that  first  can  grasp  the  strand, 
May  mount  at  morn  and  ride  ;” 

Oh,  fleet  is  the  steed  which  the  bloody  hand 
Through  Antrim’s  glens  doth  guide  ! 

And  legends  tell  that  the  proud  ladye 
Would  fain  have  been  unbann’d, 

For  the  chieftain  who  proved  his  chieftainry 
Lorded  both  wife  and  land. 


282 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


THE  IRISH  WIFE. 

earl  Desmond’s  apology.73 

I would  not  give  my  Irish  wife 

For  all  the  dames  of  the  Saxon  land — 
I would  not  give  mj^  Irish  wife 
For  the  Queen  of  France’s  hand ; 

For  she  to  me  is  dearer 
Than  castles  strong,  or  lands,  or  life — ■ 
An  outlaw — so  I’m  near  her 
To  love  till  death  my  Irish  wife. 

Oh,  what  would  be  this  home  of  mine — 
A ruin’d,  hermit-haunted  place, 

But  for  the  light  that  nightly  shines 
Upon  its  walls  from  Kathleen’s  face  ? 
What  comfort  in  a mine  of  gold — 

WThat  pleasure  in  a royal  life, 

If  the  heart  within  lay  dead  and  cold, 

If  I could  not  wed  my  Irish  wife  ? 

I knew  the  law  forbade  the  banns — 

I knew  my  king  abhorr’d  her  race — 
Who  never  bent  before  their  clans, 

Must  bow  before  their  ladies’  grace. 
Take  all  my  forfeited  domain, 

I cannot  wage  with  kinsmen  strife — 
Take  knightly  gear  and  noble  name, 

And  I will  keep  my  Irish  wife. 

My  Irish  wife  has  clear  blue  eyes, 

My  heaven  by  day,  m}T  stars  by  night — 


HIS  TOXICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


283 


And,  twin-like,  truth  and  fondness  lie 
Within  her  swelling  bosom  white. 

My  Irish  wife  has  golden  hair — 

Apollo’s  harp  had  once  such  strings — 
Apollo’s  self  might  pause  to  hear 
Her  bird-like  carol  when  she  sings. 

I would  not  give  my  Irish  wife 

For  all  the  dames  of  the  Saxon  land — 
I would  not  give  my  Irish  wife 
For  the  Queen  of  France’s  hand  ; 

For  she  to  me  is  dearer 

Than  castles  strong,  or  lands,  or  life — 
In  death  I would  lie  near  her, 

And  rise  beside  my  Irish  wife. 


KILDARE'S  BARD  ON  TOURNAMENTS. 

I. 

Sing  not  to  me  of  Normandie, 

Its  armor’d  knights  and  bloodless  sports. 
Its  sawdust  battle-fields,  to  me, 

Are  odious  as  its  canting  courts  ; 

But  sing  to  me  of  hunting  far 
The  antler’d  elk  in  Erris’  vales, 

Of  flying  ’neath  the  crackling  spar, 

Off  Arran,  through  Atlantic  gales. 

n. 

Baymond  was  brave,  De  Courcy  bold, 

And  Hugo  Lacy  bred  to  rule — 

But  I am  of  the  race  of  old, 

And  cannot  learn  in  Norman  school. 

— 


284 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS . 


Sing  not  to  me  of  G-uisnes  field, 

Or  how  Earl  Gerald  match’d  with  kings 74 — 
I’d  rather  see  him  on  his  shield 
Than  tilting  in  their  wrestler  rings. 


'TWAS  SOMETHING  THEN  TO  BE  A BARD. 
L 

In  long  gone  days  when  he  who  bore 
The  potent  harp  from  hall  to  hall, 

His  courier  running  on  before, 

His  castle  where  he  chose  to  call; 

When  youthful  nobles  watch’d  for  him, 

And  ladies  fair,  with  fond  regard, 

Fill’d  the  bright  wine-cup  to  the  brim, 

’Twas  something  then  to  be  a bard. 


ii. 

When  seated  by  the  chieftain’s  chair, 

The  minstrel  told  his  pictured  tale, 

Of  whence  they  came  and  who  they  were, 
The  ancient  stock  of  Innisfail — 

When  the  gray  steward  of  the  house 
Laid  at  his  feet  the  rich  reward, 

Gay  monarch  of  the  long  carouse, 

’Twas  something  then  to  be  a bard. 

iii. 

’Twas  glorious  then  when  banners  waved, 
And  chargers  neigh’d,  and  lances  gleam’d, 
When  all  was  to  be  borne  or  braved 
That  patriot  zeal  desired  or  dream’d — 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS . 


285 


’Twas  glorious  in  mid-host  to  ride 
A king’s  gift  graceful  as  the  ’pard, 
With  famous  captains  by  his  side, 

Proud  of  the  presence  of  the  bard. 

IV. 

’Twas  glorious,  too,  ere  age  had  power 
To  dim  the  eye  or  chill  the  blood, 

To  fly  to  Beauty’s  evening  bower, 

And  lift  from  Beauty’s  brow  the  hood; 
To  feel  that  Heaven’s  own  sacred  flame 
Can  melt  a heart  however  hard, 

To  gather  love  by  right  of  fame — 

’Twas  glorious  then  to  be  a bard. 


TEE  BANSHEE  AND  THE  BRIDE . 

A FRAGMENT. 

I. 

On  the  landscape  night  and  darkness, 
Sheep  and  shepherd  sleeping  lay — 
Somewhere  far  the  old  moon  wander’d, 
Scarce  a star  vouchsafed  its  ray ; 

While  the  cold  breeze  from  the  northward 
Stirr’d  the  anchor’d  pleasure-boat, 

And  thrill’d  the  long  reeds,  making  music 
All  along  the  castle-moat. 

ii. 

But  the  sadder  sound  was  vanquish’d 
By  the  gazer  from  within, 

As  upon  the  unlighted  landscape 
Broke  the  festal  midnight  din; 


28G 


+- 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS . 


For  to-night  Bath  Imayn’s  chieftain 
Has  brought  home  his  lovely  bride, 
And  her  kinsmen  and  his  clansmen 
Seven  days  at  Eath  Imayn  abide. 


in. 

“ Hark  1”  he  said,  “ what  voice  of  sorrow 
Is  it  thus  I chance  to  hear, 

Could  they  not  await  the  morrow, 

Nor  disturb  our  marriage  cheer? 

Bid  them  enter,  though  untimely, 
Never  was  it  truly  said 
That  we  turn’d  away  the  stranger, 

Or  denied  him  board  and  bed  1” 


THE  LOVE  CHARM. 


I. 

“ Ancient  crones  that  shun  the  highways, 
In  dark  woods  to  weave  your  spells — 
Holy  dwellers  in  the  byways, 

Erenachs  of  blessed  wells; 

House  and  lands  to  whoso  finds  me 
Where  the  cure  for  Connor  dwells  !” 


n. 

One  went  out  by  night  to  gather 
Vervain  by  the  summer  star; 76 
Hosts  of  Leeches  sought  the  father 
In  his  hall  of  Castlebar; 

Blessed  water  came  in  vials 

From  the  wells  of  ancient  saints; 

Vain  their  knowledge — vain  their  trials — 
Science  wots  not  youth’s  complaints. 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEO  END  ARY  POEMS. 


287 


m. 

“ Nearer,  nearer,  Sister  Margaret — 

(Lest  the  baffled  Leeches  hear) — 
Listen  to  me,  sister  dearest, 

’Tis  of  Love  that  I lie  here. 

In  Athenree  there  is  a blossom 

More  than  all  their  charms  could  do; 
There  is  healing  in  her  bosom, 

All  my  vigor  to  renew. 

IV. 

“ But  our  father  hates  her  father — 

Deadty  feud  between  them  reigns — 
Peace  may  come  when  I am  sleeping 
Where  the  lank  laburnum’s  weeping, 

And  the  cold  green  ivy  creeping 
O’er  the  grave  where  nothing  pains ! 

v. 

“ Tell  her  then — ” “ Nay,  brother,  brother, 

Live  and  hope  and  trust  to  me; 

In  a guise  none  can  discover, 

I will  be  your  lady’s  lover, 

Woo  her  here  to  thee,  my  brother, 

Ere  the  new  moon  faded  be  1” 

VI. 

Clad  in  boyish  guise  sits  Margaret, 

With  a harp  upon  her  knee, 

Harping  to  the  lovely  mistress 
Of  the  castled  Athenree — 

Chanting  how,  in  days  departed, 

All  the  world  was  truer-hearted — 

How  death  only  could  have  parted 
Love  and  fond  Fidelity. 


288 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEUi l 


VJI. 

Sighed  the  lady — “ Gentle  minstrel. 

If  such  lovers  e’en  lived  now, 

Ladies  might  be  found  as  faithful, 

But  few  such  there  are,  I trow.” 

Quoth  the  singer,  also  sighing, 

“Nay,  I know  where  one  is  lying 
For  thy  sake — know  where  he’s  dying — 
Tell  me,  shall  he  live  or  no  ?” 

vm. 

Through  the  green  woods,  blossom-laden. 
Ride  the  minstrel  and  the  maiden., 

O’er  the  Robe’s  bright  waters  gushing — 
He  exhorting  and  she  blushing — 
Athenree  behind  them  far, 

Riding  till  the  sun  of  even’, 

Lingering  late  upon  Ben  Nephin, 

Saw  them  enter  Castlebar. 

IX. 

Sat  the  sick  heir  in  his  chamber, 

Sore  besieged  by  early  death, 

Life  and  death’s  alternate  banners 
Waver’d  in  his  feeble  breath; 

All  the  Leeches  had  departed, 

While  the  sad  sire,  broken-hearted. 

Gazes  from  his  turret  lonely, 

Thinking  of  his  sick  heir  only — 

O’er  his  heirless  lands  beneath. 

x. 

“ Connor ! Connor ! here’s  your  blossom, 
Take  her— take  her  to  your  bosom; 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


289 


Said  I not  to  trust  to  me  ? 

And  this  reverend  man  will  wive  you — 
Albeit  he  comes  to  shrive  you — 

And  the  bridesmaid  I shall  be  I” 


XI. 

On  the  turret  wept  the  father, 

(While  the  son  beneath  was  wed) — 
Came  the  priest  reluctant  to  him — 
“Ah!  I know,”  he  cried,  “ he’s  dead!” 
“ Nay,  not  so,  my  noble  master, 

Young  Lord  Connor’s  come  to  life !” 

“ Say  5t  again,  again — speak  faster — ” 

“ Yea,  my  lord — and  here’s  his  wife !” 


QUEEN  MARY’S  MERCY. 
RESPECTFULLY  DEDICATED  TO  MRS.  JAMES  SADLIEB. 

Part  I . 

i. 

Call  her  not  “ Bloody  Mary  ” — she 
Who  loved  to  set  the  prisoner  free,76 
And  dry  misfortune’s  tear — 

Or,  ere  the  ancient  fraud  prevail, 

Attend  unto  a simple  tale, 

As  true  as  we  sit  here. 

n 

Long  years  in  London’s  dismal  Towers 
O’Connor  told  the  heavy  hours, 

TJnpitied  and  unknown ; 

The  serf  who  brought  the  prison  bread 
Shook  ominous  his  shagged  head, 

And  seal’d  the  crypt  of  stone  ; 


290 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEU  END  ARY  POEMS. 


Within  his  ken,  no  living  thing 
Save  some  bat  clinging  to  the  wing, 

To  the  wet  wall  he  saw — 

While  daily  fainter  grew  his  hope, 

That  that  dread  gate  would  ever  ope — 
Such  then  was  Saxon  law. 


His  manly  locks  were  wither’d  now, 
Sorrow  had  trenched  his  joyous  brow, 
Quaver’d  the  voice  at  whose  clear  call 
The  tumult  hush’d  in  camp  and  hall, 

And  trembled  sore  the  limbs  that  once 
Was  tireless  in  the  chase  and  dance, 

And  heavier  than  the  chain  he  wore, 

The  heart  that  in  his  breast  he  bore  1 
Six  years  had  pass’d  since  unaware, 

He  fell  into  the  Saxons’  snare  ; 

False  Francis  Bryan’s  guest  betray’d — 77 
From  banquet-hall  in  chains  convey’d ! 
And  well  he  knows  what  strife  for  power 
Bent  Offally  from  that  rash  hour; 

Three  kinsmen,  haughty,  fierce,  and  vain, 
Contending,  rend  his  dear  domain; 

A fourth,  a youth  of  milder  mood, 

In  Mellifont  draws  close  his  hood, 

And,  shuddering  o’er  their  evil  deeds, 
Seeks  solace  in  his  book  and  beads. 


Ah  ! sad  must  fare  the  chieftain’s  child, 
Left  parentless  in  scene  so  wild ! 

No  father’s  sway,  no  mother’s  art 
To  guide  her  steps  or  school  her  heart  ; 


hi. 


IV. 


T 


I 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


291 


With  none  to  help  her  helplessness, 

With  none  to  cheer  her  loneliness, 

Drifted  at  mercy  of  the  storm — 

What  may  befall  this  fragile  form  ? 

What  eye  keep  guard  ? what  accents  plead  ? 
What  arm  defend  in  hour  of  need  ? 

The  fearful  father  turn’d  to  heaven — 

By  its  dread  Lord  her  life  was  given; 

Albeit,  in  his  propitious  day, 

It  cost  him  little  time  to  pray ; 

Now  all  his  soul  went  up  in  sighs 
To  the  good  angels  in  the  skies, 

To  supplicate  their  guardian  aid 
In  warden  of  his  orphan’d  maid. 


v. 

Would  that  the  pining  captive  knew, 
Sweet  Marg’ret,  how  beloved  you  grew  ? 
How  lovely  was  the  mould  of  grace 
That  charm’d  the  rustics  of  thy  race  ; 
How  lovelier  far  the  pious  mind 
Thy  beauty  so  devoutly  shrined  ; 

Seldom  was  camp  or  fortress  sway’d 
By  wiser  head,  or  more  obey’d  ; 

Seldom  were  laws  of  kings  or  earls 
More  potent  than  this  orphan  girl’s  ; 
For  early  care  gives  shape  and  course 
To  minds  that  have  the  torrent’s  force, 
Which  else  with  wasteful  want  exhaust. 
And  quickly  in  life’s  sands  are  lost ! 

Fair  Marg’ret’ s soul  had  all  the  fire 
That  mark’d  in  youth  her  captive  sire, 
With  all  the  tenderness  beside 
That  won  him  to  her  mother’s  side, 


t 


292 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


And  who  need  ask  what  load  of  care 
For  love,  such  bosoms  will  not  bear  ? 

VI. 

Saint  Bridget’s  holy  sisterhood, 

Restored  to  their  time-hallow’d  wood, 

Watch’d  o’er  her  youth  with  zeal  as  true 
As  mortal  maiden  ever  knew, 

And  worthily  she  lived  to  pay 
Their  priceless  care  in  after-day. 

Of  all  the  lore  they  knew  to  teach, 

She  most  pursued  the  English  speech,7* 

Unthreading  meaning’s  mazy  round 
Until  the  undoubted  sense  was  found. 

Soon  all  familiar  and  by  rote 

Was  Surrey’s  lay  and  Chaucer’s  note  ; 

With  many  a tear  she  ponder’d  o’er 
The  story  of  Sir  Thomas  More, 

And  frequent  flash’d  her  eye  of  jet 
At  thought  of  his  true  Margaret.79 
Not  for  its  rythmic  melody, 

Nor  for  its  aspirations  high, 

She  prized  the  stranger’s  tongue  ; 

A higher  hope,  a better  aim 
Than  pride  of  lore  or  love  of  fame 
From  her  fond  fancy  sprung. 

Her  sire  in  Saxon  prison  lay — 

This  speech  alone  could  win  her  way  1 
It  might — G-od  grant  that  it  might — be 
A guide,  a passport,  and  a key 
To  win  that  dear  sire’s  liberty ! 

Part  II. 

i. 

The  Irish  Sea  benignant  smiled 

on  him  immWnM  child  ; "*  * 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


293 


The  western  wind,  with  friendly  zeal, 
Eastward  imped’d  the  willing  keel ; 

A cloudless  morrow’s  sunrise  shed 
Its  saffron  shower  on  Holyhead  ; 

It  seem’d  the  smiling  Heaven  bless’d 
Her  dauntless  heart  and  filial  quest, 

As,  lighted  by  a faithful  hand, 

She  lightly  leap’d  on  Cambria’s  strand.80 
Instinct  with  hope,  she  sprung  with  speed 
Upon  a rough  Carnarvon  steed — 

A colt  untrain’d  to  silken  rein 
Or  ambling  in  a lady’s  train — 

Of  foot  unerring,  skill’d  to  cross 
The  wildest  ridge  of  Penman-ross. 

High  noon  beheld  the  cavalcade 
At  Bangor  Ferry,  close  array’d; 

With  Bangor’s  monks  an  hour  they  stay’d; 
Then  onward  sped  the  impatient  maid 
Past  Penman  Mawr;  at  eve  they  stood 
By  Aberconway’s  rapid  flood; 

Another  day,  another  night, 

Gave  Chester’s  war- walls  to  their  sight; 

By  the  third  moon  their  course  was  bent 
Along  the  eddying  tide  of  Trent — 

O’er  Stoke’s  sad  field,  enrich’d  and  red 
With  ashes  of  the  Irish  dead,81 
In  Simnel’s  spurious  cause  misled. 

They  paused  not  Litchfield’s  tow’rs  to  see; 
Snatch’d  brief  repose  at  Coventry; 

O’er  Dunsmore  Heath  at  dawn  they  swept, 
And,  ere  the  midwatch,  wearied,  slept 
Beneath  the  blessed  calm  and  shade 
Saint  Alban’s  ransom’d  abbey  made.” 


294 


HISTORICAL  AN I)  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


II. 

To  royal  Richmond’s  nuptial  court 
Our  trembling  suitor  must  resort : 

There  reigns  Queen  Mary  ; by  her  side 
King  Philip  sits  in  silent  pride  ; 

Around,  his  glittering  escort  shine, 

A living,  moving,  Mexic  mine, 

Mingling,  like  morning  in  the  east, 

The  light  and  shade,  grandee  and  priest ; 
From  lip  to  lip  pass’d  many  a name 
Still  living  on  the  lips  of  fame  ; 

Swart  Alva  and  Medina’s  duke 
Reflect  their  master’s  cheerful  look  ; 

The  banish’d  cardinal  is  there, 

Grown  gray  with  early  woe  and  care  ; 
Elizabeth,  whose  gay  attire, 

Like  Etna’s  vines,  hides  heart  of  fire  ; 
Repentant  Gardiner  stands  a-near, 

And  many  a high  and  puissant  peer, 

And  many  a lady  tine  or  fair, 

And  many  a jocund,  hopeful  heir. 

in. 

As  when  among  the  feather’d  race, 
Assembled  in  their  wonted  place, 

Borne  from  its  home  by  adverse  blast, 
Some  fate  a foreign  bird  may  cast, 

Whose  plumage,  rich  with  tropic  dyes, 
Startles  the  native  warbler’s  eyes — 

Such  wonder  seized  the  courtiers  all, 

As,  trembling,  up  the  audience-hall, 

Came  the  bright  maiden  of  the  West, 

In  mourning  weeds  untimely  dress’d — ■ 
Her  cheek  made  pale  by  carking  care, 

No  jewel  in  her  turban’d  hair — 83 


1 


7 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEO  END  ART  POEMS. 


295 


-t 

Upon  her  troubled  breast  there  lay 
A starry  cross,  her  only  stay — 

Through  the  long  lash  her  eye  that  hid 
The  big  tear  swell’d  beneath  the  lid — 

The  suppliant  scroll  that  told  her  woe 
Sore  shaking  in  her  hand  of  snow. 

rv. 

Before  the  throne  she  flung  her  down, 
"Spite  gallant’s  smirk  and  usher’s  frown — 

“ Mercy !”  she  cried,  in  accents  wild, 

“ Behold,  my  Queen,  O’Connor’s  child ! 

The  hand  my  orphan  youth  caress’d, 

The  hand  that  night  and  morning  bless ’d — 
The  teaching  voice,  the  loving  face, 

"We  miss  them  in  his  native  place! 

There  is  no  music  now,  nor  mirth 
About  Offally’s  hostless  hearth — 

Offally’s  fields  lie  bare  and  brown, 

Offally’s  flowers  all  torn  and  strown — 
Offally’s  desolate  domain 
Echoes  its  absent  master’s  name  ; 

The  peasant  mourns,  God’s  poor  bemoan 
His  woes,  which  truly  are  their  own  ; 
Contending  Tanists  rive  and  rend 
The  lordship  of  their  fetter’d  friend  ; 

0 potent  lady,  by  the  name 

Of  Mercy,  under  which  you  reign, 

(By  Mary,  Mother  of  our  Lord, 

Captive  to  treason  and  the  sword), 

By  her  who  knew  what  ’twas  to  shed 
Maternal  tears  o’er  Jesus  dead — 

Be  merciful  to  mine  and  me, 

1 beg  it  on  my  bended  knee.” 


296 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS, 


V. 

Troubled  with  thought,  Queen  Mary’s  brow 
Is  turn’d  to  royal  Philip  now  ; 

Elizabeth  has  clench’d  her  hand, 

As  if  it  held  a seering  brand; 

And  moved  her  rigid  lips,  but  hush’d 
The  stormy  words  that  upwards  rush’d. 

The  suppliant  caught  the  sovereign’s  look, 

And  guidance  from  its  meaning  took  : 

“ Oh,  aid  me,  gracious  Prince  of  Spain,”84 
She  cried  in  piteous  piercing  strain; 

“ The  same  high  blood  your  heart  inspires 
Still  animates  my  captive  sire’s  ; 

By  your  own  knightly  vows,  I crave 
My  father  from  his  living  grave — 

By  that  dear  faith  we  both  revere, 

My  poor  petition  deign  to  hear  ; 

To  you  I turn,  who  still  have  stood 
The  champion  of  Christ’s  holy  rood  : 

True  to  his  faith  my  father  fell, 

By  it,  shall  he  not  rise  as  well  ?” 

King  Philip  bow’d  his  lofty  head, 

And  something  to  his  consort  said, 

Who,  smiling,  spoke,  “ Fair  maiden,  well 
Your  father’s  woes  you’ve  learn’d  to  tell. 

Arise  ! the  king  agrees  with  me  ; 

Your  prayer  is  heard ! your  sire  is  free  !” 

VI. 

Joy ! joy  ! on  Barrow’s  bowery  side, 

Joy  throughout  Erin  far  and  wide  ; 

Bath  Imayn  rings  with  jubilee — 

Its  noble  chief  is  safe  and  free, 

r 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


297 


Nor  does  he  come  alone, 
Kildare’s  young  lord,  and  Ossory, 
Their  fathers’  halls  have  lived  to  see 
And  hold  them  as  their  own  ! 


FEAGH  M'HUGH.** 

Feagh  M‘Hugh  of  the  mountain — 

Feagh  M‘Hugh  of  the  glen — 

Who  has  not  heard  of  the  Glenmalur  chief, 
And  the  feats  of  his  hard-riding  men  ? 
Came  you  the  sea-side  from  Carmen — 
Cross’d  you  the  plains  from  the  West — 
No  rhymer  you  met  but  could  tell  you, 

Of  Leinster  men  who  is  the  best. 

Or  seek  you  the  Liffev  or  Dodder — 

Ask  in  the  bawns  of  the  Pale — 

Ask  them  whose  cattle  they  fodder, 

Who  drinks  without  fee  of  their  ale. 
From  Ardamine  north  to  Kilmainham, 

He  rules,  like  a king,  of  few  words, 

And  the  Marchmen  of  seven  score  castles 
Keep  watch  for  the  sheen  of  his  swords. 

The  vales  of  Kilmantan  are  spacious — 

The  hills  of  Kilmantan  are  high — 

But  the  horn  of  the  Chieftain  finds  echoes 
From  the  waterside  up  to  the  sky. 

The  lakes  of  Kilmantan  are  gloomy, 

Yet  bright  rivers  stream  from  them  all — 
So  dark  is  our  Chieftain  in  battle, 

So  gay  in  the  camp  or  the  hall. 


298 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 


The  plains  of  Clan  Saxon  are  fertile, 

Their  Chiefs  and  their  Tanists  are  brave, 

But  the  first  step  they  take  o’er  the  border, 

Just  measures  the  length  of  a grave  ; 

Thirty  score  of  them  foray’d  to  Arklow, 
Southampton  and  Essex  their  van — 

Our  Chief  cross’d  their  way,  and  he  left  of 
Each  score  of  them,  living,  a man. 

Oh,  many  the  tales  that  they  cherish, 

In  the  glens  of  Kilmantan  to-day, 

And  though  church,  rath,  and  native  speech  perish, 
His  glory’s  untouch’d  by  decay. 

Feagh  M‘Hugh  of  the  mountain — 

Feagh  M‘Hugh  of  the  glen — 

Who  has  not  heard  of  the  Grienmalur  Chief, 

And  the  feats  of  his  hard-riding  men  ? 


LAMENT  OF  THE  IRISH  CHILDREN  IMPRISONED  IN  THE 

TOWER .86 

I. 

For  deep-valley’d  Desmond  we  sigh  and  we  weep, 

The  Funcheon  and  Maigue  flow  on  through  our  sleep, 
And  our  eyes  wax  dim  as  the  red  clouds  rest 
Like  an  advanced  guard  o’er  our  destined  West. 

n. 

Oh  ! who  will  break  us  these  walls  of  stone  ? 

Oh  ! who  will  list  to  our  hapless  moan  ? 

Oh  ! who  will  bear  us  forever,  far 
From  London  Tower  toward  yonder  star  ? 


t 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS.  299 

m. 

Children  of  Chieftains,  we  pine  in  chains, 

Sighing  in  vain  for  our  flower-strewn  plains; 

The  ill  wind  that  swept  us  so  far  away, 

Flung  us  on  stones,  not  on  kindred  clay. 


IV. 

We  look  through  these  loops  on  the  Saxon  swine 
Carousing  abroad  over  ale  and  wine, 

And  their  speech  is  familiar  to  us  as  to  theirs, 
While  our  own  sounds  strange  in  our  Gaelic  ears. 

v. 

Oh ! land  without  love  ! oh ! halls  without  song ! 
How  luckless  the  weak  race  who  find  you  strong ! 
Chivalry  grows  not  on  English  ground, 

Nor  can  Mercy  about  its  throne  be  found. 

VI. 

The  day  shall  come  men  will  doubt  the  tale 
Of  the  captive  children  of  Innisfail — 

They  will  doubt  that  false  England  made  a prey 
Of  orphans  lured  from  their  homes  away. 

VII. 

Our  mothers’  eyes  may  grow  dim  with  tears, 

Our  fathers  may  barb  their  blunted  spears, 

But  this  tower  our  charnel-house  shall  be, 

Ere  our  lost  we  gain,  or  our  land  we  see. 


vm. 


Oh ! Blessed  Virgin,  who  saw  thy  Son 
In  a hostile  city  worse  set  upon, 

Be  Thou  unto  us  brother,  mother,  and  priest. 
And  Id  \mx  yogi’  iiuy,L  teak- 


300 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


t 


IX. 

Farewell  to  Desmond ! farewell  Loch  Lene ! 

To  Adare’s  rich  feast,  and  to  Thurles  Green ! 
Farewell  to  old  scenes,  and  friends,  and  songs — 
Death  chains  us  forever  to  the  land  of  our  wrongs ! 


THE  POET'S  PROP  HEQY.«* 

I. 

By  the  Druid’s  stone  I slept, 

While  my  dog  his  vigil  kept, 

And  there  on  the  mountain  lone, 

By  that  old  weird-rising  stone, 
Visions  wrapt  me  round,  and  voices 
Spoke  the  word  my  soul  rejoices. 


ii. 

“ Bard  ! the  stranger’s  roof  shall  fall — 
Grass  shall  grow  in  Norman  hall — 
Mileaclh’s  race  shall  rise  again, 

Lords  of  mountain  and  of  glen; 
Nial’s  blood  and  Brian’s  seed, 

Known  for  kingly  word  and  deed — 
Ollamh’s  skill  and  Ogma’s  lore, 

Time  to  Banbha  will  restore. 


m. 

“ Destiny  has  doom’d  it  so  ! 

Through  pass  of  death  and  waves  of  woe, 
Banbha’s  sons  shall  come  and  go; 

Twelve  score  years  a foreign  brood 
Shall  warm  them  in  the  native  blood — 
Shall  lord  it  in  the  fields  of  Eri, 

Till  her  sons  of  life  are  weary. 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


301 


IV. 

“ When  the  long- wrong’d  men  of  Eri 
Of  their  very  lives  are  weary — 

In  that  hour,  from  cave  and  rath, 
Mighty  souls  shall  find  a path — 

They  who  won  in  Gaul  dominion ; 
They  who  cut  the  eagle’s  pinion; 

They  of  the  prophetic  raco;88 
They  of  the  fierce  blood  of  Thrace ; 89 
They  who  Man  and  Mona  lorded,40 
Shall  regain  the  land  and  guard  it.” 

v. 

So,  upon  that  mountain  lone, 

By  the  gray,  weird-rising  stone, 
Visions  wrapt  me  round,  and  voices 
Spoke  the  word  my  soul  rejoices. 


THE  SUMMONS  OF  ULSTER. 

Arm  ! arm ! ye  men  of  Ulster,  for  battle  to  the  death ! 

Arm  to  defend  your  fathers’  fields,  and  shield  your  fathers’ 
faith  ! 

They  are  coming!  they  are  coming!  the  foe  is  gathering 
near ! 

Arm  for  your  rich  inheritance,  and  for  your  altars  dear  ! 

They  have  sworn  to  rase  from  out  Tyr-Owen  the  old  Hy-Nial 
line  ; 

They  have  sworn  to  spare  no  sacred  thing,  nor  sex,  nor  holy 
shrine  ; 

They  have  sworn  to  make  the  Brehons  as  elks  rare  on  our 
hills  ; 

They  have  vow’d  to  God  to  perish  here,  or  work  their  evil 
wills. 


302 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


1 


They  say  the  Queen  of  England  is  the  Queen  of  Innishowen — 

That  Hugh  O’Neil  must  be  her  earl,  or  else  be  overthrown — 

That  Hugh  Roe,  our  own,  must  kneel  to  her,  and  Tyrconnel 
be  no  more, 

And  an  unbelieving  bishop  sit  where  Saint  Patrick  sat  of 
yore. 

And  they  will  have  us  beard  ourselves  in  their  own  boyish 
trim, 

And  put  loyal-fashion’d  garments  on  every  Irish  limb — 

And  our  island-harps  be  broken,  and  our  bards  be  turn’d 
away — 

For  the  minstrel  true  must  follow  still  the  fortunes  of  his 
lay! 


Now  swear  we  by  our  fathers’  graves,  and  by  the  wives  we’ve 
wed, 

And  by  the  true-begotten  heirs  of  each  honest  marriage-bed, 

And  by  our  bless’d  Apostle,  they  shall  perish  one  and  all, 

Ere  they  lord  it  thus  o’er  broad  Tyr-Owen,  Armagh,  and 
Donegal ! 

Unfold  our  standards  on  the  hills,  and  bid  the  heralds  forth, 

Let  them  blow  their  challenges  abroad  through  all  the 
valley ’d  North — 

Let  them  summon  every  spearsman  from  Lough  Ramor  to 
Lough  Foyle, 

From  Dundalk’s  bay  of  battles  to  the  far-off  Tory’s  Isle  ! 


And  if  they  ask  for  Hugh  O’Neil  and  the  O’Donnell  Roe, 

Bid  them  meet  their  trusted  princes  by  the  falls  of  Assaroe— 
Let  the  curraghs  of  Fermanagh  rot  on  fair  Lough  Erne’s 
shore— 

Let  the  fishers  of  Lough  Swilly  fling  aside  the  peaceful 
oar — 

Let  the  men  of  Ardnarigh  leave  their  dogs  upon  the  track, 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEO  END  ARY  POEMS . 


303 


And  the  pilgrim  from  Saint  Patrick’s  Isle  to  the  trysting 
hurry  back  ; 

And,  as  over  the  deep- valley ’d  North  the  challenge  thus  they 
blow, 

Bid  them  meet  their  trusted  Princes  by  the  Falls  of  Assaroe. 


SONG  OF  O'  DONNELL  IN  SPAIN . 

CORUNNA,  WINTER  OF  1603. 

I. 

Oh,  wild  and  wintry  is  the  night,  and  lonely  is  the  hour, 

But  I wish  I were  far  off  at  sea,  in  spite  of  storm  and  shower, 
So  that  the  dawn  might  see  me  cast  upon  the  Irish  coast — 
So  that  I had  regain’d  my  land,  whatever  might  be  lost ! 

No  headland  gray,  so  far  away 
From  house  or  place  could  be, 

But  the  voice  of  kin  would  bid  me  in, 

And  welcome  back  from  sea. 

H. 

Full  pleasant  is  the  land  of  Spain,  and  kind  my  lord  the  King 
And  sweetly  to  the  willing  ear  the  Spanish  minstrels  sing; 
But  in  my  ear  the  song  of  love  sounds  idle  and  profane, 
Until  I clasp  my  only  one — my  native  land  again. 

No  headland  gray,  so  far  away 
From  house  or  place  could  be, 

But  the  voice  of  kin  would  bid  me  in, 

And  welcome  back  from  sea. 

HI. 

Oh,  happy  is  the  beaten  bird,  that  from  the  billowy  West, 

At  fall  of  eve  can  still  return  in  Erin  to  her  nest; 

Oh,  happy  is  the  fond  sea  wave,  that,  when  the  storms  cease, 
Can  fling  itself  at  Erin’s  feet,  and  breathe  its  last  in  peace, 


t 


304  HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

No  headland  gray,  so  far  away 
From  house  or  place  could  be, 

But  the  voice  of  kin  would  bid  me  in, 

And  welcome  back  from  sea. 

IV. 

Blow,  blow,  ye  winds,  and  fly  ye  clouds,  let  day  and  night  be 
sped, 

God  speed  the  hour,  and  haste  the  help,  by  Spain  long  prom- 
ised; 

But  help  who  may,  God  speed  the  day,  and  send  His  strong 
wind  forth, 

To  bear  O’Donnell’s  flag  again  to  combat  in  the  North. 

No  headland  gray,  so  far  away 
From  house  or  place  could  be, 

But  the  voice  of  kin  would  bid  me  in. 

And  welcome  back  from  sea. 


LOST , LOST  ARMADA. 

I. 

One  by  one  men  die  on  shore, 
Falling  as  the  brown  leaves  fall; 
Daily  some  one  doth  deplore 
A sleeper  in  a sable  pall. 

Slowly  single  coffins  pass 
To  cold  crypts  beneath  the  grass ; 
But  on  sea — oh,  misery  ! 

Death  is  frantic — death  is  free; 

So  they  found  who  sailed  with  thee, 
Lost,  lost  Armada ! 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS  305 

II. 

What  an  Oriental  show 

Thine  was  on  the  Biscayan  tide; 

Well  might  Philip’s  bosom  glow 
When  his  power  you  glorified; 

Indian  wealth  and  Flemish  skill, 

Spanish  pride  and  Roman  will, 

Borne  on  every  carvel’s  prow; 

Where  are  all  your  splendors  now  ? 

Fallen  like  gems  from  Philip’s  brow, 

Lost,  lost  Armada ! 

hi. 

Water-demons  beat  the  deep — 

Lir,  the  sea-god,  waked  in  rage — ■ 

Sped  his  couriers  forth  from  sleep — 

None  his  anger  durst  assuage; 

Then  the  god-demented  seas 
Whitened  round  the  Hebrides, 

On  Albyn’s  rocks,  on  Erin’s  sands, 

Banshees  wrung  their  briny  hands, 

Keening  for  your  perished  bands, 

Lost,  lost  Armada ! 


rv. 

Fifteen  hundred  men  of  Spain 
Sunk  in  sight  of  Knocknarea; 
Twice  a thousand  strove  in  vain 
To  reach  your  harbors,  Tyrawley ! 
Oh  ! they  have  not  even  a grave 
In  the  land  they  came  to  save; 

Only  penitent  Ocean  moans 
O’er  their  white,  far-drifting  bones, 
Blends  with  it  Erin’s  groans. 


Lost,  lost  Armada ! 


306 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


+ 


LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MONK  OF  MUCRVSS. 

If  I forget  thee, 

Irrelagk!  Irrelagh!1* 

If  I forget  thee, 

Irrelagh ! 

May  the  tongue  ungrateful  cleave 
To  my  mute  mouth’s  eave, 

And  the  hand  of  my  body  wither — 
Irrelagh ! 


n. 

Woe,  woe  to  the  hand, 

Irrelagh ! Irrelagh ! 

Woe  to  the  guilty  hand, 

Irrelagh ! 

The  hand  the  godless  spoiler  laid 
On  prayer-worn  cell  and  sacred  shade, 
And  thy  lustrous  altars — 

Irrelagh ! 


m. 

An  ever-shining  lamp, 

Irrelagh!  Irrelagh! 

An  ever-shining  lamp, 

Irrelagh ! 

Wert  thou  o’er  valley  and  o’er  wave, 
Taking  only  what  you  gave — 

The  oil  of  Aaron — 

Irrelagh ! 


T 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


307 


IV. 

I am  worn  and  gray, 

Irrelagh ! Irrelagh ! 

I am  worn  and  gray, 

Irrelagh ! 

Night  and  silence  brooding  o’er  me, 

Death  upon  the  road  before  me, 

While  I kneel  to  bless  thee — 
Irrelagh ! 

y. 

May  the  myriad  blessings, 

Irrelagh  ! Irrelagh ! 

May  the  myriad  blessings, 

Irrelagh ! 

Of  all  the  saints  in  heaven, 

Through  all  time  to  come  be  given, 

To  him  who  builds  thee  up — 
Irrelagh ! 

VI. 

For  rebuilt  thou  shalt  be, 

Irrelagh ! Irrelagh ! 

Rebuilt  thou  shalt  be, 

Irrelagh ! 

At  new  altars  like  the  old, 

Shining  bright  with  gems  and  gold, 

Ancient  rites  shall  be  renewed — 
Irrelagh  ! 


t 


THE  OUTLAWED  EARL  » 

I. 

Down  through  Desmond  sailing, 

Come  the  sea-flocks  wailing, 

Storms  without  prevailin 

On  the  wintry  sea.  | 


L 

308  HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Deep  the  snows  that  cover 
All  the  landscape  over, 

Nor  Rapparee  nor  rover 

Far  to-night  will  be. 

ii. 

Yet,  ah  ! yet,  remember, 

In  this  wild  November, 

Who,  without  an  ember, 

Ray,  or  rushlight,  bides — 

Who,  in  all  the  nation, 

Fill’d  the  highest  station — 

Who,  in  desolation, 

Hunted,  homeless,  hides  I 

m. 

Some  highland  herds  concealing 
In  his  wretched  shieling, 

The  Lord  for  whose  revealing 

Golden  snares  are  spread, — 

All  merciless  the  victor 
Of  our  noble  Hector, 

May  God  be  his  protector, 

The  God  for  whom  he  bled  I 

IV. 

This  shall  be  Desmond’s  glory, 

Unknown  in  Norman  story, 

That  the  cross  he  bore,  he 

Bore  for  Christ’s  dear  sake. 

Brother  after  brother, 

Another  and  another, 

Fell  so,  yet  no  other 

Part  would  any  take. 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS, 


309 


y. 

Death  can  but  deliver 
From  man’s  worst  endeavor, 

Then  will  Christ  forever 

Make  His  own  of  thee  ; 

For  lost  realm  and  palace — 

For  man’s  deadly  malice — 

His  all-saving  chalice 

Shall  your  banquet  be ! 

VI. 

Down  through  Desmond  sailing 
Come  the  sea-flocks  wailing, 

Storms  without  prevailing 
On  the  wintry  sea  ; 

The  hour  may  now  be  nearing, 

When  you,  Death’s  challenge  hearing, 
Answer,  all  unfearing, 

“ Master,  I follow  Thee  !” 

SIR  CAHIR  O’DOGHERTY’S  MESSAGE M 

Shall  the  children  of  Ulster  despair  ? 

Shall  Aileach  but  echo  to  groans  ? 

Shall  the  line  of  Conn  tamely  repair 

To  the  charnel,  and  leave  it  their  bones  ? 
Sleeps  the  soul  of  O’Neill  in  Tyrone  ? 

Glance  no  axes  around  by  Lough  Erne  ? 
Has  Clan  Randall  the  heart  of  a stone  ? 

Does  O’Boyle  hide  his  head  in  the  fern  ? 

Go,  tell  them  O’Dogherty  waits — 

W aits  harness’d  and  mounted  and  all, 

That  his  pikestaves  are  made  by  the  gates — 
That  his  bed ’s  by  the  white  waterfall  l 


4 


310 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 


Say,  he  turneth  his  back  on  the  sea, 

Though  the  sail  flaps  to  bear  him  afar ! 

Say,  he  never  will  falter  or  flee, 

While  ten  men  are  found  willing  for  war ! 

Bid  them  mark  his  death-day  in  their  books, 
And  hide  for  the  future  the  tale; 

But  insult  not  his  corpse  with  cold  looks, 

Nor  remember  him  over  their  ale. 

If  they  come  not  in  arms  and  in  rage, 

Let  them  stay,  he  can  battle  alone — 

For  one  flag,  in  this  fetter-worn  age, 

Is  still  flying  in  free  Innishowen  ! 

If  the  children  of  Chieftains  you  see, 

Oh,  pause  and  repeat  to  them  then, 

That  Cahir,  who  lives  by  the  sea, 

Bids  them  think  of  him,  when  they  are  men; 

Bids  them  watch  for  new  Chiefs  to  arise, 

And  be  ready  to  come  at  their  call — 

Bids  them  mourn  not  for  him  if  he  dies, 

But  like  him  live  to  conquer  or  fall ! 


THE  RAPPAREES.™ 


I. 

When  the  hand  of  the  Tyrant  was  heavy  and  strong 
On  our  island,  and  hush’d  was  the  psalm  and  the  song; 
When  hourly  the  blood  of  the  unarm’d  was  spilt; 

When  the  worship  of  God  was  deem’d  treason  and  guilt; 
When  slaves’  hearts  were  as  callous  as  live  hearts  could  be, 
Who  requited  the  wronger  ? — the  fierce  Bapparee ! 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS . 


3H 


ii. 

Nay,  smile  as  you  will,  they  were  real  heroes  then; 
O’er  a quagmire  of  terror,  they,  only,  tower’d  men ! 
The  Hessian  was  lord  of  the  plain,  but  the  hill 
Was  a fortress  unwon  from  the  free  native  still, — 

He  shelter’d  the  poor,  set  the  law’s  victim  free, 

In  his  high  court  of  judgment — the  proud  Rapparee  ! 

iii. 

The  wild  was  his  house,  and  the  heather  his  bed, 

And  the  cold  stone  the  pillow  that  held  up  his  head; 
But  the  Hessian  that  lay  in  his  treble-strong  keep 
Would  have  given  his  eyes  for  so  dreamless  a sleep. 
His  soul  from  all  foul  stains  he  ever  kept  free; 

“ I want  only  my  own ! ” — said  the  stout  Rapparee. 

IV. 

Nor  was  his  life  joyless,  for  oft  in  the  shade 

Of  the  summer  woods  sombre  his  banquet  he  made; 

And,  like  “ the  good  people,”  whoever  pass’d  by, 

He  charm’d  to  the  ring  of  his  wild  revelry; 

Oft,  too,  he  adventur’d  the  wall’d  towns  to  see, 

And  mask’d  in  their  markets — the  rash  Rapparee ! 


At  evening  his  music  was  heard  from  the  rath, 

And  the  sprite-fearing  herd  turn’d  aside  from  his  path ; 
When  the  lowland  deer-hunters  the  long  «hase  gave  o’er, 
He  follow’d,  and  homeward  its  broad  honors  bore ; 

And  the  salmon,  for  him,  seem’d  to  swim  from  the  sea, 
And  the  mountain-birds  bred  for  the  stout  Rapparee! 

VI. 

Oh ! name  them  not  slightingly,  mete  them  no  scorn, 
Nor  Bravoes,  nor  Thugs  they,  nor  men  basely  born — 


312 


HISTOBIOAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


* 


•! 


O’Connors  and  Kavanaghs,  heirs  of  the  East, 

O’Dowds  and  O’Flaherties,  old  in  the  West ; 

O’Carroll,  O’Kelly,  O’Reilly,  Mac  Nee- 

Are  all  names  that  were  borne  by  the  brave  Rapparee. 


VII. 

Oh!  name  them  not  slightingly,  mete  them  no  scorn, 
Was  not  Redmond  true  heir  to  the  vales  of  the  Mourne 
Was  not  Cahir,  who  hunted  the  soft  Harrow’s  side, 

An  O’Dempsey  as  true  as  e’er  ruled  it  in  pride  ? 

Was  not  Donald  O’Keeffe,  of  the  old  Desmond  tree, 
With  the  crown  at  its  root — a renown’d  Rapparee  ? 


VIII. 

Oh ! call  them  not  brigands,  those  chiefs  in  decay, 
And  weigh  not  their  deeds  in  the  scales  of  to-day; 
Let  sick  children  and  gossips  turn  pale  at  the  name, 
But  just  men  to  brave  men  give  fairness  and  fame. 
Let  us  try  them,  and  test  them,  and  shame  to  us  be 
If  we  still  blame  the  name  of  the  wrong’d  Rapparee ! 

AFTER  THE  FLIGHT  % 96 
September,  1607. 

i. 

Far  on  the  sea,  to-night,  ye  are — ye  noble 
Princes  and  captains  brave,  and  ladies  lorn, 
And  ship-pent  children,  happy  in  your  trouble — 
Who  know  not  to  what  trials  you  are  born. 


ii. 

Far  on  the  sea — no  gleam  from  any  offing, 

No  star  in  the  mirk  sky  to  guide  you  on, 

* This  poem  was,  I think,  the  last  written  by  Mr.  McGee  for  the  Dublin 
Nation  ; it  appeared  in  that  paper  on  the  14th  of  March,  1868,  less  than  a 
month  before  Ills  death  - -Ku  j 

I 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


313 


While  here,  your  foes  exultingly  are  scoffing 
At  all  your  clansmen — now  that  you  are  gone. 

m. 

No  port  in  sight — no  nobly  lighted  mansion 
To  greet  ye  in,  lords  of  the  open  hand ! 
Cleaving  I see  you  by  the  sea-wash’d  stanchion, 
Praying  for  any  but  your  native  land. 


IV. 

For  any  land  where  God’s  name  stirs  devotion — 

For  there  some  Christian  prince  would  bid  you  hail — 
For  any  star  to  light  safe  through  this  ocean 
To  any  shore,  the  Chieftains  of  the  GaeL 


v. 

Gone  from  your  land,  you  once  made  so  resplendent 
With  your  achievements;  darkness  shrouds  us  o’er; 
On  you  our  hopes  and  prayers  have  gone  attendant 
To  serve  their  season  on  another  shore. 


VI. 

For  God  in  heaven  will  not  permit  forever 
This  exile  of  our  greatest  and  our  best, 
Who,  for  the  Faith,  in  life-long  leal  endeavor 
Upheld  the  holy  Crusade  of  the  West. 


VTL 

They  will  return  ! 0 God,  the  joy  and  glory 

Of  that  proud  day  to  all  the  race  of  Conn — 
They  will  return,  and  in  their  after  story 
Find  solace  for  the  woes  they ’ve  undergone. 


314 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


RORY  D ALL'S  LAMENTATION .*» 

Air — “ Ma  Coleen  dhas  cruiihe  m bo.” 

I. 

Ah,  where  is  the  noble  one  vanish’d  ? 

I look  through  the  day  and  the  night  ; 

The  sun  and  the  north-star  are  steadfast. 

But  my  Eri  is  fled  from  my  sight ! 

The  mountainous  Albyn  I clamber, 

And  Mona  of  winds  I can  see, 

Wild  Wallia  still  frowns  on  the  ocean, 

But  my  Eri  is  hidden  from  me. 

n. 

Who  passeth,  all  shrouded  in  sable, 

Moaning  low  like  a wandering  wind  ? 

What  voice  is  this  wailing  ? I fear  me 
’Tis  one  that  should  madden  my  mind. 

O Eri ! my  saint  and  my  lady — 

Oh  ! musical,  beautiful,  brave  ; 

Why,  why  do  you  pass  like  a shadow 
That  smiles  on  the  sleep  of  a slave  ? 

m. 

If  these  dark  eyes  were  bright  as  the  falcon’s, 
If  my  soul  would  fly  with  me  away, 

And  give  me  to-morrow  with  Eri, 

Death  might  have  me  for  asking  next  day. 

For  what  is  my  life  without  Eri  ? 

A harp  with  the  base  of  it  gone ; 

And  glory  ? a bright  golden  goblet, 

When  the  wine  that  should  All  it  is  done  1 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 


315 


IV. 

Oh  ! had  I my  foot  on  your  heather, 

With  my  harp  and  my  hound  in  my  ken, 
No  door  but  would  play  on  its  hinges 
To  have  Eory  Dali  coming  again. 

Ah,  potent  the  spell  that  would  sever 
My  Eri  and  me  evermore — 

The  angel  of  judgment  might  part  us, 

We  could  not  be  parted  before ! 


THE  LAST  O'SULLIVAN  BE  ARE.** 

All  alone,  all  alone,  where  the  gladsome  vine  is  growing, 

All  alone  by  the  waves  of  the  Tagus  darkly  flowing, 

No  morning  brings  a hope  for  him,  nor  any  evening  cheer 

To  O’Sullivan  Beare,  through  the  seasons  of  the  year. 

He  is  thinking,  ever  thinking,  of  the  hour  he  left  Dunbuie, 

His  father’s  staff  fell  from  his  hand,  his  mother  wept  wildly ; 

His  brave  young  brother  hid  his  face,  his  lovely  sisters  twain, 

How  they  wrung  their  maiden  hands  to  see  him  sail  away 
for  Spain. 

They  were  Helen  bright  and  Norah  staid,  who  in  their 
father’s  hall, 

Like  sun  and  shadow,  frolick’d  round  the  grave  armorial 
wall. 

In  Compostella’s  cloisters  he  found  many  a pictured  saint, 

But  the  spirits  boyhood  canonized  no  human  hand  can 
paint. 

All  alone,  all  alone,  where  the  gladsome  vine  is  growing, 

^ ^ All  alone  by  the  wave  of  the  Tagus  darkly  flowing,  ^ 


316  HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 

No  morning  brings  a hope  for  him,  nor  any  evening  cheer 
To  O’Sullivan  Beare,  through  the  seasons  of  the  year. 

Oh  ! sure  he  ought  to  take  a ship  and  sail  back  to  Dunbuie — • 
He  ought  to  sail  back,  back  again,  to  that  castle  o’er  the  sea; 
His  father,  mother,  brother,  his  lovely  sisters  twain, 

’Tis  they  would  raise  the  roof  with  joy  to  see  him  back  from 
Spain. 

Hush  ! hush ! I cannot  tell  it — the  tale  will  make  me  wild — 
He  left  it,  that  gray  castle,  in  age  almost  a child  ; 

Seven  long  years  with  Saint  James’s  friars  he  conn’d  the  page 
of  might, 

Seven  long  years  for  his  father’s  roof  was  sighing  every 
night. 

Then  came  a caravel  from  the  North,  deep  freighted,  full  of 
woe, 

His  houseless  family  it  held,  their  castle  it  lay  low; 

Saint  James’s  shrine,  through  ages  famed  as  pilgrim  haunt 
of  yore, 

Saw  never  wanderers  so  wronged  upon  its  scallop’d  shore. 

Yet  it  was  sweet,  their  first  grief  past,  to  watch  those  two 
sweet  girls 

Sit  by  the  sea,  as  mermaiden  hold  watch  o’er  hidden  pearls — 
To  see  them  sit  and  try  to  sing  for  that  sire  and  mother  old, 
O’er  whose  heads  five  score  winters  their  thickening  snows 
had  roll’d. 

To  hear  them  sing  and  pray  in  song  for  them  in  deadly 
work, 

Their  gallant  brothers  battling  for  Spain  against  the  Turk. 
Corunna’s  port  at  length  they  reach,  and  seaward  ever  stare, 
Wondering  what  belates  the  ship  their  brothers  home  should 
bear.  . 


i 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


317 


Joy  ! joy  ! it  comes — their  Philip  lives ! — ah  ! Donald  is  no 
more ; 

Like  half  a hope  one  son  kneels  down  the  exiled  two  before  ; 
They  spoke  no  requiem  for  the  dead  nor  blessing  for  the 
living  ; 

The  tearless  heart  of  parentage  has  broken  with  its  grieving. 

Two  pillars  of  a ruin’d  pile — two  old  trees  of  the  land — 

Two  voyagers  on  a sea  of  grief,  long  sufferers  hand  in  hand; 
Thus,  at  the  woful  tidings  told,  left  life  and  all  its  tears, 

So  died  the  wife  of  many  a spring,  the  chief  of  an  hundred 
years. 

One  sister  is  a black- veil’d  nun  of  Saint  Ursula,  in  Spain, 
And  one  sleeps  coldly  far  beneath  the  troubled  Irish  main  ; 
’Tis  Helen  bright  who  ventured  to  the  arms  of  her  true  lover, 
But  Cleena’s  stormy  tides  now  roll  the  radiant  girl  over. 

All  alone,  all  alone,  where  the  gladsome  vine  is  growing, 

All  alone  by  the  wave  of  the  Tagus  darkly  flowing, 

No  morning  brings  a hope  for  him,  nor  any  evening  cheer 
To  O’Sullivan  Beare,  through  the  seasons  of  the  year. 


BROTHER  MICHAEL.* 

When  the  wreck  of  noble  houses 
Strew’d  the  land,  as  the  Armada 
Strew’d  the  iron  beach  of  Erris — 

In  those  days  when  faith  and  science 
Shared  the  fate  of  ancient  lineage, 
And  the  holy  men — the  planets 
On  this  earthly  side  of  heaven — 
Faded  from  the  blank  horizon; 

Then,  when  no  man  could  determine 
If  the  present  or  the  future 


— 

318  HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 

Sliow’d  most  darkly,  came  a stranger 
From  a distant  shore,  to  gather 
And  to  save  the  old  memorials 
Of  the  noble  and  the  holy, 

Of  the  chiefs  of  ancient  lineage, 

Of  the  saints  of  wondrous  virtues; 

Of  the  Ollamhs,  and  the  Brehons, 

Of  the  Bards  and  of  the  Betaghs, 

That  they  might  not  die  forever; 

How  he  came,  and  how  he  labor’d, 

What  he  suffer’d,  what  adventured, 

That  he  might  preserve  the  story 
Of  the  dear  ancestral  Island, 

That  should  never  be  forgotten ! 

Not  a stranger,  yet  a stranger 
Was  the  patient  pale  explorer; 

Born  the  heir  of  bardic  honors, 

Where  Kilbarron,  like  a topsail, 

Soars  above  the  North  Atlantic — 

Better  days  in  green  Tyrconnell, 

High  beside  its  chiefs  had  found  him 
Seated  at  the  festal  table; 

Now,  poor  brother  of  Saint  Francis, 

Less  than  priest  and  more  than  layman, 

On  the  threshold  of  the  chancel 
He  is  well  content  to  hover; 

So  that,  fare  and  garb  provided, 

Time  to  ]3ray,  and  time  to  labor 
In  the  work  his  soul  delighted, 

It  might  prosper — let  him  perish ! 

Looking  northward  from  the  city 
By  the  Egyptian  call’d  Eblana, 


* Dublin. 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


319 


We  can  trace  the  careful  stages 
Of  the  constant  Brother  Michael ! 

We  can  trace  him  where  the  Slaney 
Spreads  its  waves  around  Beg-Erin, 
Holy  isle  of  Saint  Iberius ! 

Where  the  gables  of  Dunbrody 
Stand  the  proof  of  Hervey’s  penance,100 
By  the  junction  of  the  rivers; 

Where  the  golden  vale  of  Cashel 
Leads  the  pilgrim  to  the  altar — 

To  the  tabernacles  glorious, 

Shining  from  that  rocky  altar; 

Where,  in  beauteous  desolation, 

Like  Saint  Mary  in  the  desert, 

Quin’s  fair  abbey  pleads  with  heaven. 

Looking  northward  from  the  city 
By  the  Egyptian  call’d  Eblana, 

We  can  trace  the  careful  stages 
Of  the  constant  Brother  Michael, 
Where  the  Boyne,  historic  river, 

Deal'  to  Cormac  and  Cuchullin, 
Stretches  seaward,  sad  and  solemn, 
Loth  to  leave  the  plain  of  Tara; 

Where  the  lakes  and  knolls  of  Cavan 
Echo  to  the  sound  of  harping; 

From  the  yet  unconquer’d  forests, 
Where  Lough  Erne’s  arbor  islands 
Waft  their  fragrance  to  the  mountains; 
Thence  to  the  ancestral  region 
Turns  the  constant  Brother  Michael — 
With  the  gleanings  of  his  travel, 

With  the  spoils  of  many  ruins, 

With  the  pedigrees  of  nobles, 


320 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS, 


With  the  trophies  of  his  Order, 

With  the  title-deeds  of  races, 

With  the  acts  of  Saints  and  Prophets; 
Never  into  green  Tyrconnell 
Came  such  spoil  as  Brother  Michael 
Bore  before  him  on  his  palfrey! 

By  the  fireside  in  the  winter, 

By  the  sea-side  in  the  summer, 

When  your  children  are  around  you, 
And  the  theme  is  love  of  country; 
When  you  speak  of  heroes  dying 
In  the  charge,  or  in  the  trenches; 

When  you  tell  of  Sarsfield’s  daring, 
Owen’s  genius,  Brian’s  wisdom, 
Emmet’s  early  grave,  or  Grattan’s 
Life-long  epic  of  devotion; 

Fail  not,  then,  my  friend,  I charge  you. 
To  recall  the  no  less  noble 
Name  and  works  of  Brother  Michael, 
Worthy  chief  of  the  Four  Masters, 
Saviors  of  our  country’s  annals ! 


THE  FOUR  MASTERS. 

Many  altars  are  in  Banba, 

Many  chancels  hung  in  white, 

Many  schools,  and  many  abbeys, 
Glorious  in  our  father’s  sight; 

Yet  whene’er  I go  a pilgrim, 

Back,  dear  Holy  Isle,  to  thee, 

May  my  filial  footsteps  bear  me 
To  that  Abbey  by  the  Sea, — 

To  that  Abbey  roofless,  doorless, 
Shrineless,  monkless,  tho’  it  be ! 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


321 


These  are  days  of  swift  upbuilding, 

All  to  pride  and  triumph  tends; 

Art  is  liegeman  to  Beligion, 

Genius  speaks,  and  Song  ascends. 

As  the  day-beam  to  the  sailor, 

Lighting  up  the  wreckers’  shore, 

So  the  present  lustre  shineth 
On  the  barrenness  before, — 

But  no  gleam  rests  on  that  Abbey, 
Silent  by  Tyrconnel’s  shore. 

Yet  I hear  them  in  my  musings, 

And  I see  them  as  I gaze, 

Four  meek  men  around  the  cresset, 

With  the  scrolls  of  other  days; 

Four  unwearied  scribes  who  treasure 
Every  word  and  every  line, 

Saving  every  ancient  sentence 
As  if  writ  by  hands  divine. 

On  their  calm,  down-bended  foreheads, 
Tell  me  what  is  it  you  read  ? 

Is  there  malice  or  ambition, 

In  the  will,  or  in  the  deed  ? 

Oh,  no ! no  ! the  Angel  Duty 
Calmly  lights  the  dusky  walls, 

And  their  four  worn  right  hands  follow 
Where  the  Angel’s  radiance  falls. 

Not  of  Fame,  and  not  of  Fortune, 

Do  these  eager  pensmen  dream; 

Darkness  shrouds  the  hills  of  Banba, 
Sorrow  sits  by  every  stream ; 

One  by  one  the  lights  that  led  her. 


322 


HISTORICAL  AN1)  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


Hour  by  hour  were  quench’d  in  gloom  ; 
But  the  patient,  sad,  Four  Masters, 

Toil  on  in  their  lonely  room — 

Duty  thus  defying  Doom. 

As  the  breathing  of  the  west  wind 
Over  bound  and  bearded  sheaves, 

As  the  murmur  in  the  bee-hives, 

Softly  heard  on  summer  eves, 

So  the  rustle  of  the  vellum, 

So  the  anxious  voices  sound, 

So  the  deep  expectant  silence 
Seems  to  listen  all  around. 

Brightly  on  the  Abbey  gable 

Shines  the  full  moon  thro’  the  night, 
While  far  to  the  northward  glances 
All  the  bay  in  waves  of  light. 

Tufted  isle,  and  splinter’d  headland, 

Smile  and  soften  in  her  ray, 

Yet  within  their  dusky  chamber, 

The  meek  Masters  toil  assay, 

Finding  all  too  short  the  day. 

Now  they  kneel ! attend  the  accents 
From  the  souls  of  mourners  wrung; 
Hear  the  soaring  aspirations, 

Barb’d  with  the  ancestral  tongue; 

For  the  houseless  sons  ot  Chieftains, 

For  their  brethren  afar, 

For  the  mourning  Mother  Island, 

These  their  aspirations  are. 

And  they  said,  before  uprising, 

“Father,  grant  one  other  prayer — - 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


323 


Bless  the  lord  of  Moy-O’Gara, 

Bless  his  lady,  and  his  heir; 

Send  the  gen’rous  chief,  whose  bounty 
Cheers,  sustains  us  in  our  task, 
Health,  success,  renown,  salvation — 
Father ! this  is  all  we  ask.” 

Oh  ! that  we  who  now  inherit 

All  their  trust,  with  half  their  toil, 
Were  but  fit  to  trace  their  footsteps 
Through  the  Annals  of  the  Isle ; 

Oh  ! that  the  bright  Angel,  Duty, 
Guardian  of  our  tasks  might  be, 
Teach  us  as  she  taught  our.  Masters, 

In  that  Abbey  by  the  Sea, 

Faithful,  grateful,  just,  to  be  1 


A PRAYER  FOR  FEARGAL  O' GAR  A. 

WHITTEN  ON  A BLANK  LEAF  OF  o’DONOVAN’s  “ FOUR  MASTERS.” 

A prayer  for  Feargal ! Lord  of  Leyney — 

He  for  whom  this  book  was  written, 

By  the  life-devoted  Masters — 

Brother  Michael  and  his  helpers ! 

May  the  generous  soul  of  Feargal, 

In  the  mansions  of  the  bless’d, 

By  the  learned,  gifted  elders, 

All  whose  love  had  elsewise  perish’d — 

By  the  countless  saints  of  Erin, 

By  the  pilgrims  to  the  Jordan, 

By  the  noble  chiefs  victorious, 

Over  all  life’s  sinful  combats — 

T 


324 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS . 

Dwell  forever,  still  surrounded; 

As  he  gather’d  up  their  actions, 

As  he  drew  their  names  around  him 
In  these  pages  may  he  find  them, 

Still  around  him  and  about  him, 

In  beatitude  forever ! 

Oh ! forever  and  forever, 

Benedictions  shower  upon  him, 
Brighter  glories  shine  around  him, 
And  the  million  prayers  of  Erin, 

Rise  like  incense  up  to  heavan, 

Still  for  Feargal,  Lord  of  Leyney  1 


SONNET— TO  KILBARRON  CASTLE.™ 

Broad,  blue,  and  deep,  the  Bay  of  Donegal 
Spreads  north  and  south  and  far  a-west  before 
The  beetling  cliffs  sublime,  and  shatter’d  wall 
Where  the  O’Clery’s  name  is  known  no  more. 

Kilbarron,  many  castle  names  are  sung 

In  deathless  verse  they  less  deserved  than  thee, — 

The  Rhine-tow’rs  still  endure  in  German  tongue  ; 

Gray  Scotland’s  keeps  in  Scottish  poesy; 

In  chronicles  of  Spain,  and  songs  of  France, 

Full  many  a grim  chateau  and  fortress  stands  ; 

And  Albion’s  genius,  strong  as  Uther’s  lance, 

Guards  her  old  mansions  ’mid  their  alter’d  lands  ; 

Home  of  an  hundred  annalists,  round  thy  hearths,  alas ! 

The  churlish  thistles  thrive,  and  the  dull  graveyard  grass. 
Ashambe,  July,  1846, 

« 


I 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


325 


“IN-FELIX  FELIX."™ 

Why  is  his  name  unsung,  oh  minstrel  host  ? 

Why  do  you  pass  his  memory  like  a ghost  ? 

Why  is  no  rose,  no  laurel,  on  his  grave  ? 

Was  he  not  constant,  vigilant,  and  brave? 

Why,  when  that  hero-age  you  deify, 

Why  do  you  pass  “ In-felix  Felix  ” by  ? 

He  rose  the  first — he  looms  the  morning  star 
Of  the  long,  glorious,  unsuccessful  war; 

England  abhors  him  ! has  she  not  abhorr’d 
All  who  for  Ireland  ventured  life  or  word  ? 

What  memory  would  she  not  have  cast  away, 

That  Ireland  hugs  in  her  heart’s  heart  to-day  ? 

He  rose  in  wrath  to  free  his  fetter’d  land — 

“ There’s  blood,  there’s  Saxon  blood,  upon  his  hand.*1 
Ay,  so  they  say ! — three  thousand,  less  or  more, 

He  sent  untimely  to  the  Stygian  shore, — 

They  were  the  keepers  of  the  prison-gate — 

He  slew  them,  his  whole  race  to  liberate. 

O clear-eyed  poets ! ye  who  can  descry 
Through  vulgar  heaps  of  dead  where  heroes  lie-  - 
Ye  to  whose  glance  the  primal  mist  is  clear — 

Behold  there  lies  a trampled  noble  here  ! 

Shall  we  not  leave  a mark  ? shall  we  not  do 
Justice  to  one  so  hated  and  so  true  ? 

If  ev’n  his  hand  and  hilt  were  so  distain’d, — 

■ If  he  was  guilty,  as  ho  lias  beon  h1anifldr 


326 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


J 

His  death  redeem’d  his  life — he  chose  to  die 
Bather  than  get  his  freedom  with  a lie. 

Plant  o’er  his  gallant  heart  a laurel  tree, 

So  may  his  head  within  the  shadow  be. 

I mourn  for  thee,  O hero  of  the  North — 

God  judge  thee  gentler  than  we  do  on  earth  I 
I mourn  for  thee,  and  for  our  land,  because 
She  dare  not  own  the  martyrs  in  our  cause; 
But  they,  our  poets,  they  who  justify — 

They  will  not  let  thy  memory  rot  or  die ! 


THE  CONNAUGHT  CHIEF’S  FAREWELL. 

[Scene — Galway  Bay  after  sunset.  A Connaught  Chief  and  his  daughter  on 
Ihe  deck  of  a departing  ship.  Time — 1652.  A few  days  after  the  surrender 
of  Galway  city  to  the  Parliamentarians.] 

“ My  Daughter  ! ’tis  a deadly  fate  that  turns  us  out  to  sea, 

Leaving  our  hearts  behind  us,  where  our  hopes  no  more 
can  be; 

The  fate  that  lifts  our  anchor,  and  swells  our  sail  so  wide, 

Will  have  us  far  from  sight  of  land  ere  morning ’s  on  the 
tide. 

“ Why  does  the  darkness  lower  so  deep  upon  the  Galway 
shore  ? 

Will  no  kind  beam  of  moon  or  star  shine  on  the  cliffs  of 
Moher  ? 

My  child,  you  need  not  banish  so  the  heart’s  dew  from 
your  eye, 

We  cannot  catch  an  utmost  glimpse  of  Arran  sailing  by. 

“ Thus  all  that  was  worth  fighting  for,  for  ever  pass’d  away, 

The  true  hearts  all  were  given  to  death,  the  living  turn’d 
to  clay; 


-t 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


32  V 


No  wonder,  then,  the  shamefaced  shore  should  veil  itself 
in  night, 

When  slaves  sleep  thickly  on  the  land,  why  should  the 
sky  be  bright  ? 


“Yes,  thus  their  light  should  vanish,  as  vanish’d  first  their 
cause, 

Its  hills  should  perish  from  our  sight,  as  sunk  its  native 
laws, 

Its  valleys  from  our  souls  be  shut  like  chalices  defiled, 

Nought  have  I now  to  love  or  serve,  but  God  and  you,  my 
child.” 

“ My  father  dear — my  father,  what  makes  you  talk  so  wild  ? 

To  God  place  next  your  country,  and  after  her,  your  child; 

Though  the  land  be  dark  behind  us,  and  the  sea  all  dim 
before, 

A morrow  and  a glory  yet  shall  dawn  on  Connaught’s 
shore. 


“ What  though  foul  Fortune  has  her  will,  and  stern  Fate 
fills  our  sail, 

The  slaves  that  sleep  must  waken  up,  nor  can  the  wrong 
prevail; 

What  though  they  broke  our  altars  down,  and  roll’d  our 
Saints  in  dust, 

They  could  not  pluck  them  from  that  Heaven  in  which  they 
had  their  trust.” 

May  God  and  his  Saints  protect  you,  my  own  girl,  wise 
as  fair, 

An  angel  wrestling  with  my  will,  indeed  you  ever  were; 

Oh,  sure,  when  young  hearts  hold  such  hope,  and  young 
heads  hold  such  thought, 

Defeat  can  ne’er  be  destiny,  nor  the  ancient  fight  unfought ! 


328 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 

“ Good  land — green  land — dear  Ireland,  though  I cannot 
see  you,  still 

May  God’s  dew  brighten  all  your  vales,  His  sun  kiss  every 
hill; 

And  though  henceforth  our  nights  and  days  in  strange 
lands  must  be  pass’d, 

O-ur  hearts  and  hopes  for  your  uprise  shall  keep  watch  till 
the  last !” 


EXECUTION  OF  ARCHB ISHOP  PLUNKETT. 
LONDON,  JULY,  1681. 

I. 

Another  scaffold  looms  up  through  the  night, 
Another  Irish  martyr’s  hour  draws  near, 

The  cruel  crowd  are  gathering  for  the  sight, 

The  July  day  dawns  innocently  clear ; 

There  is  no  hue  of  blood  along  the  sky, 

Where  the  meek  martyr  waits  for  light  to  die ! 

n. 

Which  is  the  culprit  in  the  car  of  death  ? 

He  of  the  open  brow  and  folded  hands  ! 

The  turbid  crowd  court  every  easy  breath, 

There  is  no  need  on  him  of  gyves  or  bands; 
Pale,  with  long  bonds  and  vigils,  yet  benign, 

JLe  bears  upon  his  breast  salvation’s  sign. 

in. 

What  was  his  crime  ? Did  he  essay  to  shake 
The  pillar  of  the  state,  or  undermine 
The  laws  which  vow  a worthy  vengeance, 

And  punish  treason  with  a death  condign  ? 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


329 


Look  in  that  holy  face,  and  there  behold 
The  secret  of  the  sufferer’s  life  all  told. 

IV. 

Enough  ! he  was  of  Irish  birth  and  blood, 

He  fill’d  Saint  Patrick’s  place  in  stormy  days, 

He  lived,  discharging  duty,  doing  good, 

Dead  to  the  world,  and  the  world’s  idle  praise, — 
The  faithless  saw  his  faith  with  evil  eyes, 

They  doom’d  him  without  stain,  and  here  he  dies. 


“ CAROLAN  THE  BLIND." 

I. 

To  the  cross  of  Glenfad  the  Blind  Bard  came, 
And  at  the  four  roads  he  drew  his  rein, 

And  stopp’d  his  steed,  and  raised  his  hand 
To  learn  from  the  currents  the  lie  of  the  land  ; 
And  spoke  he  aloud,  unconscious  that  near 
His  words  were  caught  up  by  a listening  ear. 


ii. 

“ The  sun’s  in  the  south,  the  noon  must  be  past, 

And  cold  on  my  right  comes  the  northeast  blast  ; 
What  ho  ! old  friend,  we  ’ll  face  to  the  west, 

For  Connaught ’s  the  quarter  the  Bard  loves  best ; 

’T  is  the  heart  of  the  land,  and  the  stronghold  of  song, 
So  now  for  our  Connaught  friends  march  we  along ! 


in. 


iC 

C< 


In  Connaught,”  he  humm’d,  as  on  he  rode, 

The  heart  and  the  house  and  the  cup  overflow’d  • 


330 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


In  Connaught  alone  does  music  find 
The  answering  feet  and  the  echoing  mind  ; 

’Tis  the  soul  of  the  soil  and  the  fortress  of  song, 

So  now  for  our  Connaught  friends  march  we  along !” 


TO  THE  RIVER  BOYNE.™ 

i. 

Bride  of  Lough  Ramor,  gently  seaward  stealing, 

In  thy  placid  depths  hast  thou  no  feeling 
Of  the  stormy  gusts  of  other  days  ? 

Does  thy  heart,  O gentle,  nun-faced  river, 

Passing  Schomberg’s  obelisk,  not  quiver, 

While  the  shadow  on  thy  bosom  weighs  ? 

H. 

Thou  hast  heard  the  sounds  of  martial  clangor, 

Seen  fraternal  forces  clash  in  anger, 

In  thy  Sabbath  valley,  River  Boyne  ! 

Here  have  ancient  Ulster’s  hardy  forces 
Dress’d  their  ranks  and  fed  their  travell’d  horses 
Tara’s  hosting  as  they  rode  to  join. 

hi. 

Forgettest  thou  that  silent  summer  morning 
When  William’s  bugles  sounded  sudden  warning, 

And  James’s  answer’d,  chivalrously  clear; 

When  rank  to  rank  gave  the  death- signal  duly, 

And  volley  answer’d  volley  quick  and  truly, 

And  shouted  mandates  met  the  eager  ear  ? 

IV. 

The  thrush  and  linnet  fled  beyond  the  mountains  ; 

The  fish  in  Inver  Colpa  sought  their  fountains;  ^ j 


t 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


331 


The  unchased  deer  ran  through  Tredagh’s*  gates ; 
St.  Mary’s  bells  in  their  high  places  trembled, 

And  made  a mournful  music,  which  resembled 
A hopeless  prayer  to  the  unpitying  fates. 

Ah  ! well  for  Ireland  had  the  battle  ended 
When  James  forsook  what  William  well  defended, 
Crown,  friends,  and  kingly  cause  ; 

Well,  if  the  peace  thy  bosom  did  recover 
Had  breathed  its  benediction  broadly  over 
Our  race,  and  rites,  and  laws. 


VI. 

Not  in  thy  depths,  not  in  thy  fount,  Lough  Ram  or, 
Were  brew’d  the  bitter  strife  and  cruel  clamor 
Our  wisest  long  have  mourn’d  ; 

Foul  faction  falsely  made  thy  gentle  current 
To  Christian  ears  a stream  and  name  abhorrent, 
And  all  its  sweetness  into  poison  turn’d. 

VII. 

But,  as  of  old,  God’s  prophet  sweeten’d  Mara, 

Even  so,  blue  bound  of  Ulster  and  of  Tara, 

Thy  waters  to  our  exodus  give  life; 

Thrice  holy  hands  thy  lineal  foes  have  wedded, 

And  healing  olives  in  thy  breast  imbedded, 

And  banish’d  far  the  bitterness  of  strife.104 

VIII. 

Before  thee  we  have  made  a solemn  fcsdus, 

And  for  chief  witness  called  on  Him  who  made  us, 
Quenching,  before  his  eyes,  the  brand  of  hate; 
Our  pact  is  made  for  brotherhood  and  union, 

For  equal  laws  to  class  and  to  communion, 

Our  wounds  to  staunch,  our  land  to  liberate. 
Urnikirli  uuw  krgtfhsdft, 


332 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


IX. 

Our  trust  is  not  in  musket  or  in  sabre — 

Our  faith  is  in  the  fruitfulness  of  labor, 

The  soil-stirred,  willing  soil; 

In  homes  and  granaries  by  justice  guarded, 

In  fields  from  blighting  winds  and  agents  warded, 
In  franchised  skill  and  manumitted  toil. 

x; 

Grant  us,  oh  God,  the  soil,  and  sun,  and  seasons ! 
Avert  despair,  the  worst  of  moral  treasons, 

Make  vaunting  words  be  vile; 

Grant  us,  we  pray,  but  wisdom,  peace,  and  patience 
And  we  will  yet  re-lift  among  the  nations 
Our  fair,  and  fallen,  and  unforsaken  isle ! 


THE  WILD  GEESE.™ 

I. 

“ What  is  the  cry  so  wildly  heard, 

Oh,  mother  dear,  across  the  lake  ? ” 

“ My  child,  ’t  is  but  the  northern  bird 
Alighted  in  the  reedy  brake.” 

n. 

“ Why  cries  the  northern  bird  so  wild  ? 

Its  wail  is  like  our  baby’s  voice.” 

“ ’T  is  far  from  its  own  home,  my  child, 

And  would  you  have  it,  then,  rejoice?” 

m. 

“ And  why  does  not  the  wild  bird  fly 

Straight  homeward  through  the  open  air? 
I see  no  barriers  in  the  sky — 

Why  does  she  sit  lamenting  there  ? ” 


t 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS.  333 


IY. 

“ My  child,  the  laws  of  life  and  death 
Are  written  in  four  living  books; 

The  wild  bird  reads  them  in  the  breath 
Of  winter,  freezing  up  the  brooks — 

y. 

“ Reads  and  obeys — more  wise  than  man — 
And  meekly  steers  for  other  climes, 
Obeys  the  providential  plan, 

And  humbly  waits  for  happier  times. 


VI. 

“ The  spring,  that  makes  the  poets  sing, 

Will  whisper  in  the  wild  bird’s  ear, 

And  swiftly  back,  on  willing  wing, 

The  wild  bird  to  the  north  will  steer.” 

VII. 

“ Will  they  come  back,  of  whom  that  song 

Last  night  was  sung,  that  made  you  weep?” 
“Oh!  God  is  good,  and  hope  is  strong; — 

My  son,  let ’s  pray,  and  then  to  sleep.” 


TEE  DEATH  OF  O' C A R OL  A N™ 

There  is  an  empty  seat  by  many  a board, 

A guest  is  missed  in  hostelry  and  hall, 

There  is  a harp  hung  up  in  Alderford 
That  was  in  Ireland  sweetest  harp  of  all. 

The  hand  that  made  it  speak,  woe’s  me,  is  cold, 
The  darken’d  eyeballs  roll  inspired  no  more; 
The  lips — the  potent  lips — gape  like  a mould, 
Where  late  the  golden  torrent  floated  o’er. 

1 


— - 

334  HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 

In  vain  the  watchman  looks  from  Mayo’s  towers 
For  him  whose  presence  filled  all  hearts  with  mirth; 
In  vain  the  gathered  guests  outsit  the  hours — 

The  honored  chair  is  vacant  by  the  hearth. 

From  Castle-Archdall,  Moneyglass,  and  Trim, 

The  courteous  messages  go  forth  in  vain, 

Kind  words  no  longer  have  a joy  for  him 

Whose  lowly  lodge  is  in  Death’s  dark  demesne. 


Kilronan  Abbey  is  his  castle  now, 

And  there  till  doomsday  peacefully  he’ll  stay; 

In  vain  they  weave  new  garlands  for  his  brow, 

In  vain  they  go  to  meet  him  by  the  way; 

In  kindred  company  he  does  not  tire, 

The  native  dead,  and  noble,  lie  around, 

His  life-long  song  has  ceased,  his  wood  and  wire 
Rest,  a sweet  harp  unstrung,  in  holy  ground. 

Last  of  our  ancient  minstrels  ! thou  who  lent 
A buoyant  motive  to  a foundering  race — 

Whose  saving  song,  into  their  being  blent, 
Sustained  them  by  its  passion  and  its  grace — 
Grod  rest  you  ! May  your  judgment  dues  be  light, 
Dear  Turlogh  ! and  the  purgatorial  days 
Be  few  and  short,  till,  clothed  in  holy  white, 

Your  soul  may  come  before  the  Throne  of  rays  1 


THE  CROPPIES'  GRAVE.™ 

I. 


Peace  be  round  the  Croppies’  grave, 
Let  none  approach  but  pilgrims  brave; 
This  sacred  hillside  even  yet 
Should  slavery  fly  with  frightened  feet. 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS . 


335 


II. 

Peace  to  their  souls,  whose  bodies  here 
Met  martyr’s  death  and  rebel’s  bier, 

Who  sleep  in  more  than  holy  ground, 

In  death  unparted  and  unbound. 

iii. 

Fearless  men  of  every  time, 

In  Christian  land  and  pagan  clime, 

Have  sunk  to  rest  by  plain  or  hill, 
O’erwatched  by  cairn  and  citadel. 

IV. 

The  roving  sea-kings’  tumuli 

Stand  firm  by  northern  strait  and  sea; 

The  Pharaoh  hath  his  pyramid, 

Whose  gate  and  date  the  sands  have  hid. 

v. 

The  Indian  lies  beside  his  lake, 

Waiting  the  final  voyage  to  take, 

The  good  Manetto’s  passport  given 
To  the  green  hunting-grounds  of  heaven. 

VI. 

The  Roman  vault,  the  Grecian  shrine, 

Are  sacred  haunts  of  all  the  “ Nine” 

Who  there  unweave  the  shrouds  of  death, 
And  breathe  around  creative  breath. 

VII. 

But  vault,  or  shrine,  or  forest  grave, 

Or  sea-kings’  cairn  beside  the  wave, 

Or  Egypt’s  proudest  pyramid, 

Such  hearts  as  Tara  bolds,  ne’er  hid. 


336 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEO  END  ARY  POEMS. 


yin. 

What  though  of  these  none  wore  a crown, 

None  crouched  beneath  a monarch’s  frown; 
What  though  none  spoke  the  speech  of  Greece, 
Spartans  were  not  more  brave  than  these. 


IX. 

Though  pompous  line  and  pillar’d  stone 
May  never  make  their  lost  names  known, 
They  sleep  wrapp’d  by  the  noble  sod, 
Ten  thousand  Irish  chiefs  have  trod. 

x. 

Peace  be  round  the  Croppies’  grave; 
Peace  to  your  souls,  ye  buried  brave; 
Tara’s  Hill,  when  crowned  and  free, 

Had  never  nobler  guests  than  ye  1 


SONG  OF  “MOYLAN’S  DRAGOONS.'  ™ 

[Supposed  to  be  sung  after  the  surrender  of  Lord  Cornwallis  at  Yorktown, 

1781.] 

I. 

Furl  up  the  banner  of  the  brave, 

And  bear  it  gently  home, 

Through  stormy  scenes  no  more ’t  will  wave, 

For  now  the  calm  has  come; 

Through  showering  grape,  and  drifting  death, 

It  floated  ever  true, 

And  by  the  signs  upon  its  path, 

Men  knew  what  troop  went  through. 


HISTORICAL  AN1)  LEGENDARY  FORMS 


337 


ii. 

Yon  flag  first  flew  o’er  Boston  free, 
When  Graves’s  fleet  groped  out ; 

On  Stony  Point  reconquered,  we 
Unfurl’d  it  with  a shout; 

At  Trenton,  Monmouth,  Germantown, 
Our  sabres  were  not  slack, 

Like  lightning,  next,  to  Charlestown 
We  scourged  the  British  back. 


ii. 

And  here  at  Yorktown  now  they  yield, 
And  our  career  is  o’er, 

No  more  thou  ’It  flutter  on  the  field, 
Flag  of  the  brave!  no  more; 

The  Kedcoats  yield  up  to  “ the  Line,” 
Both  sides  have  changed  their  tunes; 
To  peace  our  Congress  doth  incline, 
And  so  do  we,  Dragoons. 


iv. 

Furl  up  the  banner  of  the  brave, 

And  bear  it  gently  home, 

No  more  o’er  Moylan’s  march  to  wave, 

Lodge  it  in  Moylan’s  home. 

There  Butler,  Hand,  and  Wayne,  perchance, 
May  tell  of  battles  o’er, 

And  the  old  flag,  on  its  splinter’d  lance, 
Unfurl  for  joy  once  more. 

v. 

Hurrah  ! then,  for  the  Schuylkill  side, 

Its  pleasant  woody  dells; 

Old  Ulster  109  well  may  warm  with  pride, 
When  each  his  story  tells, 


338 


HISTORICAL  AND  LKGEMDaRY  poems. 


Comrades,  farewell ! may  Heaven  bestow 
On  you  its  richest  boons; 

So  let  us  drink  before  we  go, 

To  Moylan’s  brave  Dragoons ! 


CHARITY  AND  SCIENCE.™ 

I. 

The  city  gates  are  bound  and  barr’d — whence  comes  the  foe  ? 
Sentinels  move  along  the  walls,  speechlessly  and  slow; 

The  banner  over  the  castle  droops  down  despondingly — 
New  graves  and  fireless  hearths  are  all  the  Castellan  can  see. 

n. 

The  priest  was  at  the  altar,  chanting  a solem  mass ; 
Fearlessly  through  the  crowded  nave  we  saw  the  Leaguer 
pass — 

He  slew  the  clerk  at  the  Agnus  Dei — he  struck  the  priest  to 
death — 

He  spill’d  the  consecrated  cup — life  wither’d  at  his  breath. 

hi. 

Then  rose  a cry  to  Heaven,  “ Who  will  stay  this  shape  of 
fear — 

This  bodiless  avenger  ? God  ! is  no  succor  near  ?” 

Street  after  street  sent  up  the  cry  to  the  warders  on  the  wall, 
And  the  childless  Castellan  echo’d  it  from  his  heirless  inner 
hall. 

IV. 

Now  forth  into  the  market-place  there  stepp’d  two  maidens 
| young, 

Goddess-bright  to  look  upon,  and  honey-sweet  of  tongue; 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


339 


Under  the  brow  of  one  there  lay  the  leeches’  healing  lore — 
’Twas  fair  Science,  led  by  Charity — they  pass’d  from  door  to 
door. 


y. 

In  days  of  peace,  no  two  so  fond  of  silence  or  repose, 

But  as  the  hearts  of  men  sunk  down,  their  spirits  higher 
rose; 

Wealth  had  fled — its  steeds  fell  dead — nor  could  its  treasure 
bring 

A cool  breath  from  the  sultry  heaven — a pure  drop  from  the 
spring. 

VI. 

These  ^maidens  gave,  for  Jesus’  sake,  what  treasures  could 
not  buy ; 

The  air  grew  pure  as  they  approach’d,  the  darkness  left  the 
sky; 

The  sentry  at  the  eastern  gate  felt  the  foe  hurrying  out, 

And  the  citizen  and  the  Castellan  raised  a wildly  joyful 
shout. 


VII. 

The  people  sang  Te  Deum,  and,  at  eve,  this  other  song — 

“ May  Charity  and  Science  in  our  island  flourish  long; 

And  wheresoe’er  they  turn  their  steps,  let  manhood  bend 
the  knee, 

Let  our  fairest  and  our  sagest  their  votaries  still  be !” 


THE  FAMINE  IN  THE  LAND. 

i. 

Death  reapeth  in  the  fields  of  life,  and  we  cannot  count  the 
corpses; 

Black  and  fast  before  our  eyes  march  the  biers  and  hearses  ; 
In  lone  ways  and  in  highways  stark  skeletons  are  lying, 


340 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


And  dafly  unto  Heaven  their  living  kin  are  crying — 

“ Must  the  slave  die  for  the  tyrant,  the  sufferer  for  the  sin — 
And  a wide  inhuman  desert  be  where  Ireland  has  been; 
Must  the  billows  of  oblivion  over  all  our  hills  be  roll’d, 

And  our  land  be  blotted  out,  like  the  accursed  lands  of  old  ?” 

n. 

Oh  ! hear  it,  friends  of  France ! hear  it,  our  kindred  Spain  ! 
Hear  it,  our  kindly  kith  and  kin  across  the  western  main — 
Hear  it,  ye  sons  of  Italy — let  Turk  and  Russian  hear  it — 
Hear  Ireland’s  sentence  register’d,  and  see  how  ye  can 
bear  it ! 

Our  speech  must  be  unspoken,  our  rights  must  be  forgot; 
Our  land  must  be  forsaken,  submission  is  our  lot — 

We  are  beggars,  we  are  cravens,  and  vengeful  England  feels 
TJ<s  at  her  feet,  and  tramples  us  with  both  her  iron  heels. 


in. 

These  the  brethren  of  Gronsalvo ! these  the  cousins  of  the 
Cid! 

They  are  Spaniels  and  not  Spaniards,  born  but  to  be  bid — 
They  of  the  Celtic  war-race  who  made  that  storied  rally 
Against  the  Teuton  lances  in  the  lists  of  Roncesvalles  ! 

They,  kindred  to  the  mariner  whose  soul’s  sublime  devotion 
Led  his  caravel  like  a star  to  a new  world  through  the 
ocean ! 

No  ! no  ! they  were  begotten  by  fathers  in  their  chains, 
Whose  valiant  blood  refused  to  flow  along  the  vassal  veins. 

IV. 

Ho  ! ho ! the  devils  are  merry  in  the  farthest  vaults  of  night, 
This  England  so  out-Lucifers  the  prime  arch-hypocrite; 
Friend  of  Peace  and  friend  of  Freedom — yea,  divine  Religion’s 
friend, 

She  is  feeding  on  our  hearts  like  a sateless  nether  fiend ! 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS.  341 

Ho  ! ho  ! for  the  vultures  are  black  on  the  four  winds; 

No  purveyor  like  England  that  foul  camp-following  finds; 

Do  you  not  mark  them  flitting  between  you  and  the  sun  ? 
They  are  come  to  reap  the  booty,  for  the  battle  has  been 
won. 


v. 

Lo ! what  other  shape  is  this,  self-poised  in  upper  air, 

With  wings  like  trailing  comets,  and  face  darker  than  despair? 
See  ! see  ! the  bright  sun  sickens  into  saffron  in  its  shade, 
And  the  poles  are  shaken  at  their  ends,  infected  and  afraid — 
’Tis  the  Spirit  of  the  Plague,  and  round  and  round  the  shore 
It  circles  on  its  course,  shedding  bane  for  evermore; 

And  the  slave  falls  for  the  tyrant  and  the  sufferer  for  the 
sin, 

And  a wild  inhuman  desert  is  where  Ireland  has  been. 


VI. 

’Twas  a vision — ’tis  a fable — I did  but  tell  my  dream — 

Yet  twice,  yea  thrice,  I saw  it,  and  still  it  seem’d  the  same; 

Ah  ! my  soul  is  with  this  darkness  nightly,  daily  overcast, 

And  I fear  me,  God  permitting,  it  may  fall  out  true  at  last; 

God  permitting,  man  decreeing ! What,  and  shall  man  so 
will, 

And  our  unseal’d  lips  be  silent  and  our  unbound  hands  be 
still? 

Shall  we  look  upon  our  fathers,  and  our  daughters,  and  our 
wives, 

Slain,  ravish’d,  in  our  sight,  and  be  paltering  for  our  lives  V 

VII. 

Oh ! countrymen  and  kindred,  make  yet  another  stand — 

Plant  your  flag  upon  the  common  soil — be  your  motto  Life 
and  Land  I 


t 


— 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


342 

From  the  charnel  shore  of  Cleena  to  the  sea-bridge  of  the 
Giant, 

Let  the  sleeping  souls  awake,  the  supine  rise  self-reliant; 

And  rouse  thee  up,  oh ! city,  that  sits  furrow’d  and  in  weeds, 

Like  the  old  Egyptian  ruins  amid  the  sad  Nile’s  reeds. 

Up,  Mononia,  land  of  heroes,  and  bounteous  mother  of 
song, 

And  Connaught,  like  thy  rivers,  come  unto  us  swift  and 
strong ; 

Oh ! countrymen  and  kindred,  make  yet  another  stand — 

Plant  your  flag  upon  the  common  soil — be  your  motto  Life 
Land. 


THE  FLYING  SHIPS. 

AS  SEEN  FROM  THE  COAST  OF  IRELAND  IN  1847- 

I. 

Where  are  the  swift  ships  flying 
Far  to  the  West  away? 

Why  are  the  women  crying, 

Far  to  the  West  away? 

Is  our  dear  land  infected, 

That  thus  o’er  her  bays  neglected, 

The  skiff  steals  along  dejected, 

While  the  ships  fly  far  away  ? 


n. 

Skiff!  can  I blame  your  stealing 
Over  the  mournful  bay  ? 

Ships  flee,  but  they  have  no  feeling, 
Bent  an  their  order’d  wav; 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


343 


’Tis  you,  oh  ! you  lords  of  castles, 
Keeping  your  godless  wassails, 

And  banishing  far  your  vassals, 

’Tis  you  I curse  this  day ! 

hi. 

Sad  is  the  sight  that  daunts  me, 

Far  to  the  West  away, 

But  a homeward  hope  still  haunts  me, 
Far  to  the  West  away; 

I see  a fair  fleet  returning, 

I see  bright  beacons  burning, 

And  gladness  in  place  of  mourning, 

As  the  ships  to  the  shore  make  way, 


THE  WOFUL  WINTER. 

SUGGESTED  BY  ACCOUNTS  OF  IRELAND,  IN  DECEMBER,  1848. 

I. 

They  are  flying,  flying,  like  northern  birds  over  the  sea  for 
fear, 

They  cannot  abide  in  their  own  green  land,  they  seek  a rest- 
ing here ; 

Oh ! wherefore  are  they  flying,  is  it  from  the  front  of  war, 

Or  have  they  smelt  the  Asian  plague  the  winds  waft  from 
afar? 

n. 

No  ! they  are  flying,  flying,  from  a land  where  men  are  sheep, 

Where  sworded  shepherds  herd  and  slay  the  silly  crew  they 
keep; 

Where  so  much  iron  hath  pass’d  into  the  souls  of  the  long 
enslaved, 

That  none  was  found  by  fort  or  field,  or  in  Clnnnpion’s  right 
hand  waved. 


344 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


III. 

Yea ! they  are  flying  hither,  breathless  and  pale  with  fear, 

And  it  not  the  sailing  time  for  ships,  but  the  winter,  dark 
and  drear ; 

They  had  rather  face  the  waters,  dark  as  the  frown  of  God, 

Than  make  a stand  for  race  and  land  on  their  own  elastic  sod. 

IV. 

Oh,  blood  of  Brian,  forgive  them ! oh,  bones  of  Owen,  rest ! 

Oh,  spirits  of  our  brave  fathers,  turn  away  your  eyes  from 
the  West; 

Look  back  on  the  track  of  the  galleys  that  with  the  soldier 
came — 

Look!  look  to  the  ships  of  Tyre,  moor’d  in  the  ports  of 
Spain. 

v. 

But  look  not  on,  dread  Fathers ! look  not  upon  the  shore 

Where  valor’s  spear  and  victory’s  horn  were  sacred  signs 
of  yore; 

Look  not  toward  the  hill  of  Tara,  or  Iveagh,  or  Ailech  high ! 

Look  toward  the  East  and  blind  your  sight,  for  they  fly  at 
last,  they  fly ! 

▼i. 

And  ye  who  met  the  Romans  behind  the  double  wall, 

And  ye  who  smote  the  Saxons  as  mallet  striketh  ball, 

And  ye  who  shelter’d  Harold  and  Bruce  1,1 — fittest  hosts  for 
the  brave — 

Why  do  you  not  join  your  spirit-strength,  and  bury  her  in 
the  wave  ? 

VII. 

Alas ! alas ! for  Ireland,  so  many  tears  were  shed, 

That  the  Celtic  blood  runs  palely,  that  once  was  winy  red! 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS.  345 

They  are  flying,  flying  from  her,  the  holy  and  the  old, 

Oh,  the  land  has  alter’d  little,  but  the  men  are  cowed  and 
cold. 

VIII. 

Yea ! they  are  flying  hither,  breathless  and  pale  with  fear, 
And  it  not  the  sailing-time  for  ships,  but  the  winter,  dark 
and  drear; 

They  had  rather  face  the  waters,  dark  as  the  frown  of  God, 
Than  make  a stand  for  race  and  land,  on  their  own  elastio 
sod. 


SHAWN  NA  GOW’S*  GUEST. 

A FABLE  FOR  THE  POETS  OF  THE  NATION,  IN  1848. 

I. 

A Killaloe  Gow  wrought  in  his  forge  at  night, 
With  a merry  heart,  in  a glowing  light; 

His  arm  of  strength  and  head  of  sense, 

Brought  the  good  heart  due  recompense. 


11. 

’Twas  a red  ploughshare  on  his  anvil  lay. 
Thought  the  Gow — “ Before  a year  and  a day 
Many  a sod  of  valley  and  lea 
Thy  master  will  turn,  clean  colter,  with  thee.” 

in. 

This  Gow  was  a lonely  bachelor  man, 

And  lived,  like  a tree,  where  his  life  began; 
His  only  love  was  that  glorious  river 
Which  flows  by  Killaloe  ever  and  ever. 

* Shawn  na  Gow  — John,  the  Smith. 


346 


HISTORICAL  and  legendary  poems. 


IV. 

He  loved  the  trees  and  the  men  that  rose 
On  its  sides,  for  the  sake  of  the  river  that  flows, 
And  oft,  though  wearied,  he  lay  awake, 

To  hear  the  rapids  their  clamors  make. 


v. 

In  through  the  smiddy  door  there  came, 

And  stood  full  in  the  forge’s  flame, 

A form  most  royal,  and  comely,  and  bold, 
Crown’d  like  a King  of  Kinkora  old. 

VI. 

There  was  regal  power  in  every  look, 

And  lineage  plain  as  a herald’s  book, 

As  sitting  down  at  the  Gow’s  request, 

Out  spoke  the  unexpected  guest: 

VII. 

“ Shawn  Gow,  of  Killaloe,  I find 
Your  craft  has  left  my  lore  behind — 

These  chains  are  not  for  the  vanquish’d  in  battle, 
But  fetters,  metliinks,  for  pasture  cattle.” 

VIII. 

Answer’d  the  Gow:  “My  Khan  and  guest, 

The  sun  and  the  sunburst  have  set  in  the  West; 
The  conqueror  lives  in  the  heart  of  the  land — 
He  alone  hath  fetters  for  foot  and  hand.” 

IX. 

“ And  tell  me,  truly,  my  stalwart  Gow, 

Do  you  forge  no  swords  in  Banba  now  ? 

I have  temper’d  a blade  of  old,  and  fain 
Would  see  the  brave  art  flourish  again.” 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


347 


X. 

“ Khan,  Sliabh  an  Iron , still  retains 
The  martial  ore  in  its  giant  veins ; 

But  the  men  of  Erin  are  thrown  and  bound, 
Without  a wrestle,  without  a wound.” 


XI. 

“ Ha  !”  said  the  guest,  “ill  news  is  this — 

The  slaves  in  spirit  are  slaves,  I wis, 

That  all  the  swords  of  Adam’s  race 
Can  never  uplift  to  freedom’s  place. 

XII. 

“ But,  Gow,  where  are  the  bards,  whose  words 
Struck  late  on  my  ears  ‘ like  the  clash  of  swords  ?’ 
Hath  the  spirit  of  poesy  stoop’d  its  pinion 
To  laud  the  tyrant’s  dread  dominion  ?” 

xrn. 

“ The  bards,”  said  the  Gow,  “ as  many  as  be, 

Still  sigh  that  Erin  is  else  than  free; 

But  of  late  they  have  only  sigh’d  and  wept, 

And  few  the  prophetic  vigil  hath  kept.” 

XIV. 

“ Worse  news  than  ill,”  replied  the  Khan, 

“ For  never  since  Banba  first  began, 

Lack’d  there  of  bards  when  trial  was  near, 

To  shout  their  warnings  in  her  ear. 

xv. 

“ Throughout  the  age-long  Danish  fight, 

In  camp  and  court,  by  day  and  night, 

The  poet’s  brain  and  poet’s  hand 
Were  toiling  for  Banba’s  holy  land. 


348 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 


XVI. 

“ I must  be  gone ! do  thou  go  forth, 

Say  Brian  came  from  his  grave  in  the  north; 
Bid  ciairseachs  sound  and  hearts  be  strung — - 
Give  freedom  first  to  mind  and  tongue ! 

XVII. 

“ The  land  is  old — the  land  lies  low — 

They  must  not  drown  her  soul  with  woe; 

The  land ’s  in  sleep — but  not  death’s  sleep — 
’T  is  time  to  work,  but  not  to  weep.” 

XVIII. 

Out  through  the  smiddy  door  there  pass’d 
The  Ard-righ’s  fetch,  nor  turn’d,  nor  cast 
A backward  look,  in  deeper  night 
His  form  was  blended  from  the  sight. 


THE  IRISH  HOMES  OF  ILLINOIS. 

Chorus — The  Irish  homes  of  Illinois, 

The  happy  homes  of  Illinois; 
No  landlord  there 
Can  cause  despair, 

Nor  blight  our  fields  in  Illinois. 


i. 

’T  is  ten  good  years  since  Ellen  bawn 
Adventured  with  her  Irish  boy 
Across  the  sea,  and  settled  on 
A prairie  farm  in  Illinois. 

The  Irish  homes  of  Illinois,  etc. 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


34!) 


II. 

Sweet  waves  the  sea  of  summer  flowers 
Around  our  wayside  cot  so  coy, 

Where  Ellen  sings  away  the  hours 
That  light  my  task  in  Illinois. 

The  Irish  homes  of  Illinois,  etc. 

m. 

Another  Ellen ’s  at  her  knee, 

And  in  her  arms  a laughing  boy; 

And  I bless  God  to  see  them  free 
From  want  and  care  in  Illinois. 

The  Irish  homes  of  Illinois,  etc. 


IT. 

And  yet  some  shadows  often  steal 
Upon  our  hours  of  purest  joy; 

When  happiest  we  most  must  feel 
“ If  Ireland  were  like  Illinois  !” 

The  Irish  homes  of  Illinois,  etc. 


THE  SHANTY. 


I. 

This  is  our  castle  ! enter  in, 

Sit  down  and  be  at  home,  sir  ; 
Your  city  friend  will  do,  I hope, 

As  travellers  do  in  Eome,  sir  ! 

’T  is  plain  the  roof  is  somewhat  low, 
The  sleeping-room  but  scanty, 
Yet  to  the  Settler’s  eye,  you  know, 
His  castle  is — his  Shanty ! 


350  HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  FOEMS. 

9. 

The  Famine  fear  we  saw  of  old, 

Is,  like  a nightmare,  over  ; 

That  wolf  will  never  break  our  fold, 

Nor  round  the  doorway  hover. 

Our  swine  in  droves  tread  down  the  brake, 
Our  sheep-bells  carol  canty, 

Last  night  yon  salmon  swam  the  lake, 
That  now  adorns  our  Shanty. 

m. 

That  bread  we  break,  it  is  our  own, 

It  grew  around  my  feet,  sir, 

It  pays  no  tax  to  Squire  or  Crown, 

Which  makes  it  doubly  sweet,  sir  ! 

A woodman  leads  a toilsome  life, 

And  a lonely  one,  I grant  ye, 

Still,  with  his  children,  friend,  and  wife, 
How  happy  is  his  Shanty ! 

IV. 

No  feudal  lord  o’erawes  us  here, 

Save  the  Ever-bless’d  Eternal ; 

To  Him  is  due  the  fruitful  year, 

Both  autumnal  and  vernal; 

We  ’ve  rear’d  to  Him,  down  in  the  dell, 

A temple,  neat,  though  scanty, 

And  we  can  hear  its  blessed  bell 
On  Sunday,  in  our  Shanty. 

v . 

This  is  our  castle!  enter  in, 

Sit  down,  and  be  at  home,  sir  ; 

Your  city  friend  will  do,  I hope, 

As  travellers  do  in  Rome,  sir ! 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


351 


’T  is  plain  the  roof  is  somewhat  low, 
The  sleeping-room  but  scanty, 

Yet  to  the  Settler’s  eye,  you  know, 
His  castle  is — his  Shanty ! 


ST.  PATRICK'S  OF  THE  WOODS. 

i. 

“ Sir,  my  guest,  it  is  Sunday  morning, 

And  we  are  ready  to  mass  to  go, 

For  the  sexton  sent  us  word  of  warning 

That  the  priest  would  be  in  the  glen  below.” 


ii. 

Quickly  I rose,  in  mind  delighted 
To  find  the  old  faith  held  so  fast, 

That  even  in  western  wilds  benighted 
My  people  still  to  the  cross  were  clasp’d. 

in. 

We  trod  the  forest’s  broken  byway, 

We  burst  through  bush,  and  forded  floods, 

Until  we  came  to  the  valley’s  highway, 
Where  stood  St.  Patrick’s  of  the  Woods. 

IV. 

A simple  shed  it  was,  but  spacious, 

With  ample  entrance  open  wide; 

Where  forest  veterans,  green  and  gracious, 
Stood  sentinels  at  either  side. 


v. 

And  there,  old  friends  with  friends  were  meeting, 
And  the  last  new-comer  told  his  tale; 

And  kindred  kindred  there  were  greeting, 

In  the  loving  speech  of  the  island  Gael. 


352  HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 

VI. 

And  here  a group  of  anxious  faces 
Were  drawn  around  a bowering  tree, 

While  one,  a reader,  with  sage  grimaces 
Read  from  a record  spread  on  his  knee. 

VII. 

Betimes  I heard  loud  bursts  of  laughter 
At  O’Connell’s  wit,  from  the  eager  throng, 

And  then  deep  sighs  would  follow  after 
Some  verse  of  Moore’s  melodious  song. 

vm. 

Till  at  length  the  bell  of  the  lowly  altar 
Summon’d  to  prayer  the  scatter’d  flock, 

And  they  moved  with  steps  that  would  not  falter 
If  that  summons  led  to  the  martyr’s  block. 

IX. 

I ’ve  knelt  in  churches,  new  and  ancient, 

In  grand  cathedrals  betimes  I ’ve  stood, 

But  never  felt  my  soul  such  transport 
As  in  thine — St.  Patrick’s  of  the  Woods. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  AYACHUCHO .»» 


I. 

Earth’s  famous  fields,  how  lost,  how  won. 
From  first  Time  saw  the  unchanging  sun 
O’er  hostile  ranks  preside, 

The  poet’s  voice  hath  given  to  fame — 

But  Ayachucho’s  glorious  name 
Still  sleeps  on  Andes’  side. 


HISTORICAL  AN1)  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


h 

353 


ii. 

Where  Condorkanki’s  battlement 
With  the  steep  tropic  sky  is  blent, 

The  tide  of  war  had  roll’d. 

The  Spanish  tents  along  its  base 
Look’d  down  upon  a kindred  race, 

By  many  wrongs  made  bold. 

iii. 

La  Serna  from  his  tent,  at  morn 
Counted  the  Chilian  host  with  scorn — 
Scorn  ’twere  not  wise  to  show; 
As  condors  close  their  wings,  his  flanks 
Drew  up  their  far-distended  ranks 
And  swoop’d  upon  the  foe. 


IY. 

Strange  sight  on  Ayachucho’s  plain, 
Spain  smiting  down  the  sons  of  Spain, 
The  nurslings  of  her  breast ! 
Untaught  by  Britain’s  past  defeat 
How  Freedom  guards  her  last  retreat 
In  the  unfetter’d  West ! 

v. 

The  Andes,  with  their  crowns  of  snow, 
Crowns  crested  with  the  fiery  glow 
Of  the  volcanic  flood; 

The  condor,  sailing  stiffly  by, 

The  oak  trees  struggling  to  the  sky 
Beyond  the  palm-tree  wood — 

VI. 

These,  Chili,  were  thy  witnesses ! 

Long  may ’t  be  till  scenes  like  this 
Thy  mountains  see  again. 


354 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


But  if,  beneath  the  glowing  Line, 

Such  warfare  must  again  be  thine. 

God  send  thee  more  such  men ! 

VII. 

As  bend  and  break  before  the  shower 
The  loaded  wheat  and  scarlet  flower, 
So  broke  the  Spanish  host ! 

As  strikes  the  sail  before  the  squall, 

I see  the  Viceroy’s  standard  fall — 

The  day  is  won  and  lost ! 

vm. 

A day  is  won  that  dates  anew 
Thy  story,  Chili  ! thine,  Peru ! 

And,  vast  Pacific,  thine ! 

By  native  skill  and  foreign  aid 
Young  Freedom  hath  securely  made 
A lodgment  at  the  Line  ! 


Of  Sucre’s  skill,  O’Connor’s  aid, 
Cordova’s  flashing,  ruddy  blade, 

The  Chilian  muse  will  boast; 
And  seldom  can  the  muse  essay 
The  story  of  a nobler  day 

Than  that  La  Serna  lost. 


The  Andean  echoes  yet  shall  take 
The  burden  from  De  Sangre’s  lake 
Of  the  heroic  lay — 

And  Conkorkanki’s  passes  drear 
Age  after  age  the  tale  shall  hear 
Of  Ayachucho’s  day ! 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS . 


355 


THE  HAUNTED  CASTLE.™ 

“ How  beautiful ! how  beautiful !”  cried  out  the  children  all, 

As  the  golden  harvest  evening’s  moon  beamed  down  on 
Donegal; 

And  its  yellow  light  that  danced  along  the  Esker  to  the 
Bay, 

There  tinged  the  roofless  abbey’s  walls,  here  gilt  the  castle 
gray. 

“ How  beautiful ! how  beautiful ! let  us  go  hide  and  seek.” 

Some  run  along  the  river’s  edge,  some  crouch  beside  the 
creek ; 

While  two,  more  dauntless  than  the  rest,  climb  o’er  the  Cas- 
tle wall, 

And  without  note  on  horn  or  trump,  parade  the  princely 
hall. 

Brave  little  boys,  as  bright  as  stars,  beneath  the  porch  they 
pass’d, 

And  paused  just  where  along  the  hall  the  keep  its  shadow 
cast ; 

And,  Heaven  protect  us ! there  they  saw  a fire  burning  away, 

And,  sitting  in  the  ingle-nook,  an  ancient  man  and  gray; 

He  sat  upon  his  stony  seat  like  to  another  stone, 

And  ever  from  his  breast  there  broke  a melancholy  moan; 

But  the  little  boys  they  feared  him  not,  for  they  were  two  to 
one, 

And  the  man  was  stoop’d  and  aged,  and  sad  to  look  upon. 

And  he  who  was  the  eldest — his  mother  called  him  Hugh — 

Said,  “ Why  for,  sir,  do  you  make  moan,  and  wherefore  do 
you  rue  ? 


35(>  HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 

Are  you  one  of  the  old-time  kings  lang  syne  exiled  to 
Spain, 

Like  a linnet  to  its  last  year’s  nest,  that  here  returns  again  ?” 
And  the  shape  stood  up  and  smiled,  as  the  tiny  voice  he 
heard, 

And  the  tear  that  hung  upon  his  cheek  fell  to  his  snowy 
beard. 

“ My  boys,”  he  said,  “ come  sit  ye  here  beside  me,  until  I 
Tell  you  why  I haunt  this  hearth,  and  what  so  makes  me 
sigh. 

“ I am  the  Father  of  their  Race — the  Cinnel-Connell’s  sire — 
And  therefore  thus  I watch  their  home,  and  kindle  still  their 
fire; 

For  the  mystic  heat  would  perish  amid  a land  of  slaves, 

If  it  were  not  tended  nightly  by  the  spirits  from  their  graves; 
And  here  I still  must  keep  my  stand  until  the  living  are 
Deem’d  meet  to  track  the  men  of  might  along  the  fields  of 
war; 

And,  ah ! my  little  men/’  he  said,  “my  watch  is  very  long, 
Unpromised  of  an  early  end,  uncheer’d  by  friend  or  song. 

“And  the  present  is  embitter’d  by  the  memories  of  old — 
The  bards  and  their  delights,  and  the  tales  the  gossips  told; 
I remember  me  the  ringing  laughs  and  minstrelsie  divine, 
That  echoed  here  for  Nial  G-arv  and  Thorlogh  of  the  Wine; 

I remember  how  brave  Manus — an  early  grave  he  met — 
Traced  the  story  here  of  Columb-cille,  a tale  surviving  yet; 
And,  oh  ! I weep  like  Jacob,  when  of  Joseph’s  death  he  heard, 
When  I think  upon  you,  young  Hugh  Roe,  Tirconnell’s  staff 
and  sword ! 

“ My  boys,  he  was  not  thirty  years  of  age,  although  his  name 
| Was  spread  all  over  Ireland  upon  the  wings  of  fame; 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


357 


I 


Entrapp’d,  imprison’d,  frozen  on  Wicklow’s  wintry  hills, 

He  rose,  he  fought,  he  died  afar,  crowning  our  country’s  ills. 

Alas ! I cannot  help  but  cry — and  you  ! what,  crying,  too  ? 

Indeed,  it  might  melt  iron  hearts  to  think  upon  my  Hugh. 

My  boys,  go  home,  remember  him,  and  hasten  to  be  men, 

That  you  may  act,  on  Irish  soil,  his  gallant  part  again.” 

“ How  beautiful ! how  beautiful !”  cried  out  the  children  all, 

As  the  two  boys  clamber’d  over  the  ancient  castle  wall; 

“Bun  here — run  there — take  care — take  care;”  but  silently 
and  slow 

To  their  humble  homes,  the  little  friends,  hand  in  hand 
they  go; 

And  from  that  night  they  daily  read,  in  all  the  quiet  nooks 

About  their  homes,  old  Irish  songs,  and  new-made  Irish 
books; 

And  many  a walk,  and  many  a talk,  they  had  down  by  the 
Bay, 

Of  the  Spirit  of  the  Castle  Hall,  and  the  words  they  heard 
him  say. 


THE  ABBEY  BY  LOUGH  KEY.  m 

I. 

Pleasant  it  is  in  the  summer  time 
To  sail  upon  Lough  Key, 

Alone,  or  with  a soul  belov’d — 

’T  is  a lonely  lough  to  see ; 

But  ah  ! the  ancient  charm  is  fled, 
That  charm’d  that  lough  for  me  ! 

ii. 


Fair  are  the  woods  of  Rockingham, 
And  fair  the  islands  all, 


358 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 


And  fair  McDermot’s  castle  is, 

Though  nodding  to  its  fall; 

But  the  ancient  charm  is  fled  away, 

Ah,  me  ! beyond  recall. 

m. 

Of  old,  o’er  Nature’s  fairest  holds 
God’s  holy  standard  stood, 

The  loveliest  mirrors  smiled  to  catch 
The  image  of  the  Rood; 

Then,  many  a cross-erown’d  turret  rose 
Around  this  spreading  flood. 

IV. 

Then,  many  a cot  was  saved  with  prayer, 
And  hail’d  with  holy  cheer, 

And  many  a high-born  penitent 
Was  fain  to  labor  here; 

For  holy  names  and  holy  deeds 
Then  calendar’d  the  year. 

v. 

Full  many  a year  sweet  peace  abode 
Beside  the  placid  lake, 

And  whoso  claim'd  the  stranger’s  place 
For  God’s  all-glorious  sake, 

Was  welcome  still  to  stay  his  stay, 

And  take  what  he  would  take. 

VI. 

Then  on  the  evening  traveller’s  ear 
Arose  sweet  chaunt  of  psalm, 

Which  all  the  forest  list’ning  to, 

Stood  hush’d  in  cloistral  calm, 

And  the  only  airs  that  stirr’d  abroad 


AEhispf.nl  the  die, ad  “ I Am," 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS.  359 

VII. 

Ah ! well-a-day ! the  charm  is  fled — 

No  more  across  this  flood, 

Shall  traveller  catch  the  solemn  song 
Of  Norbert’s  brotherhood; 

The  pious  peasant  scarce  can  tell 
Where  once  their  convent  stood  ! 

vn. 

Yet  though  the  years  be  fled  in  flocks, 

Six  hundred  years  and  more, 

I fancy  yonder  tree  a tower. 

And  there,  along  the  shore, 

I see  the  Abbot  Clarus  pass, 

With  white-robed  monks  a score. 

IX. 

A prayer  for  Abbot  Clarus, 

Whose  holy  house  stood  here — 

One  of  God’s  strongholds  for  the  land. 

For  many  and  many  a year; 

For  still  Saint  N orbert’s  brotherhood 
To  Gael  and  Gaul  were  dear ! 

X. 

A prayer  for  Abbot  Clarus 
McMailen,  he  who  plann’d 
The  house  of  the  Blessed  Trinity, 

Upon  Lough  Key  to  stand — 

Who  here  as  guardian  of  the  lake, 

Gave  peace  unto  the  land  I 

4 

t 

HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS. 


360 


SAINT  BEES. 


Bright  shone  the  joyful  summer  sun 
On  Cumberland’s  dark  shore, 

The  wind  had  fail’d  the  fishermen 
And  put  them  to  the  oar; 

The  flippant  swallow  swept  the  shaw, 

The  brown  nuts  bent  the  trees, 

When,  from  the  neighboring  hill,  I saw 
The  village  of  Saint  Bees. 

n. 

“ Who  was  Saint  Bees  ?”  I a-sked  of  one 
Who  drove  a lazy  yoke. 

“ Saint  Bees,”  quoth  he,  “ is  that  place  yon: 

You  ’ll  find  ’em  stiffish  folk.” 

“ Who  was  Saint  Bees  ?”  I asked  again 
A squire  in  scarlet  dress’d. 

“ Who  V'  echoed  he — “ North  Countrie  men 
But  little  like  a jest.” 

m. 

I stood  within  the  fontless  porch, 

I paced  the  empty  nave, 

The  very  verger  of  the  church 
A false  tradition  gave. 

Hard  by,  a staring  pile  of  brick 
(Or  college,  if  you  please) 

Had  played  the  Saint  the  scurviest  trick — 

Had  called  itself — Saint  Bees. 

— 


HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 


361 


IV. 

A well-fed  pedant  in  a train 
Of  stuff  (not  train  of  thought), 

Who,  like  a great  goose,  strode  before 
The  gosling  flock  he  taught, 

Said,  stroking  down  his  neckcloth  white. 

That  he,  “ In  times  like  these, 

Must  say  that,  being  no  Puseyite, 

He  knew  nought  of  Saint  Bees.” 

v. 

Was  it  for  this,  oh,  virgin  band, 

Your  Irish  home  you  left, 

And  set,  for  heathen  Cumberland, 

The  life-spring  in  this  cleft  ? 

Was  it  for  this  your  vesper  chant 
Charm’d  all  these  savage  seas  ? 

Where  is  the  fruit  you  strove  to  plant 
Along  this  shore,  Saint  Bees  ? 


VI. 

I could  have  borne  the  callous  clown, 
The  squire’s  chagrin  amused, 

But  the  dullard  in  his  cap  and  gown 
I from  my  heart  abused. 

I wish’d  that  I had  been  his  Pope, 

To  put  him  on  his  knees, 

And  make  his  fine  pedantic  gown 
An  offering  to  Saint  Bees. 


i 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


DIEPHON . 


T 


For  King  Celeus  in  Eleusis,  the  evening  board  was  spread, 

The  monarch,  with  his  youthful  queen,  sits  at  the  table 
head  ; 

The  fairest  fields  of  Attica  for  him  their  harvest  bore, 

And  generous  was  his  royal  heart  and  bountiful  his  store. 

A tiller  of  the  land  by  day,  a teacher  by  the  hearth, 

When  sunset  seal’d  his  glorious  book,  the  widespread, 
beauteous  earth; 

No  tangling  purple  trail’d  behind  his  active  limbs,  no  rod 

Of  kingly  show  ere  mock’d  his  hand;  no  mimicry  of  G-od; 

His  name  through  all  Ionia  was  held  in  reverence  meet, 

And  blessings  circled  round  his  head,  and  prayers  enthroned 
his  feet. 

Metanira  and  her  royal  spouse  sat  at  the  table  head, 

And  the  household  and  the  guests  are  there  for  whom  the 
board  was  spread; 

The  wild  boar,  and  the  antler’d  deer  he  shorn  of  speed  and 
strength, 

Along  that  royal  banquet  board  stretched  in  their  ample 
length ; 

And  the  roof  with  ivy  interlaced,  and  latticed  with  the 
vine, 

Hangs  its  clustering  grapes  above  their  heads,  over  their 
kindred  wine; 


- 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


366 

And  the  thick-set  pillars,  either  hand,  are  cover’d  down  with 
flowers, 

Which,  on  Ceplusus’  bank  late  lured  the  wood-nymphs  from 
their  bowers. 

But  where  are  the  two  royal  sons  of  Metanira’s  womb  ? 

Their  vacant  seats  affront  their  sire — why  come  the  youths 
not  home? 

Triptolemus  and  Diephon  were  not  wont  to  miss  the  feast; 

Gloom  deepen’s  on  the  mother’s  brow  as  the  evening  shades 
increased. 

Lo ! they  enter  that  long  banquet-hall  leading  in  a stranger- 
guest, 

A weary  matron  whom  they  found  by  the  wayside  taking 
rest; 

Then  smiled  the  queenly  mother  her  two  kind  boys  to  see, 

And  the  hospitable  Celeus  placed  a son  on  either  knee; 

And  the  weary  matron  by  the  queen  is  placed  with  honor  meet, 

And  maidens  bear  her  water  to  cool  her  travell’d  feet ; 

And  Diephon  from  his  father’s  hand  gave  the  ripe  fruit  of 
the  vine; 

And  Triptolemus  flung  his  arms  round  a beaker  fill’d  with 
wine, 

And,  in  their  artless,  childish  speech,  which  age  can  ne  ’er 
translate, 

They  press’d  them  on  their  matron  friend,  who  bless’d  them 
as  she  ate. 

King  Celeus  bade  his  guests  farewell,  the  lady  alone  sits  still, 

WThen,  lo ! what  sudden  glory  the  silent  hall  doth  fill  ? 

Aurora  o ’er  the  mountains  ne  ’er  loosed  such  golden  flood 

As  pour’d  around  the  spot  where  the  guest  a goddess  stood — 

“ Nay,  Celeus,”  cried  her  silvery  voice,  “ stoop  not  your  head 
in  fear ! 

Nor  thou,  O happy  mother,  Metanira  ! but  draw  near — 

And  fear  me  not,  my  boys  beloved ! ’t  is  Ceres  calls  you  now ; 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


367 


Come  to  your  guest,  nor  tremble  at  the  halo  on  her  brow, 
For  blessed  shall  this  household  be,  and  blessed  every  one — 
Thou,  monarch  ! and  thou,  mother  ! Triptolemus,  Diephon ! 
Beside  the  way  I languish’d,  ah  me  ! how  wearily ! 

The  fear  of  Pluto’s  darksome  realm  on  my  heart  lay  heavily ; 
They  found  me  as  a woman,  their  kindness  hath  restored 
All  the  Immortal  to  my  soul — Metanira,  hear  my  word : 

I will  nurse  thy  boys  until  they  grow  of  men  the  lordliest — 
best, 

And  their  thirst  for  greatness  shall  be  fed  from  Ceres’  child- 
less breast; 

They  shall  draw  the  pap’s  elixir  that  once  fed  Proserpine, 
And  never  yet  had  Attica  such  sons  as  these  of  thine!” 

Full  thankful  were  the  monarch  and  the  mother  for  their 
sons, 

Through  whose  veins  the  immortal  ichor  already  plenteous 
runs — 

Their  tow’ring  forms  and  glowing  eyes  bespeak  their  fos- 
terage rare, 

And  fills  their  father’s  heart  with  hope,  their  mother’s  with 
new  care; 

For  beings  cannot  tenant  Earth,  if  for  Earth  framed  too 
finely, 

Nor  this  world’s  limits  satisfy  souls  that  aspire  divinely — 
And  sadder  Metanira  grew,  as,  every  day  apace, 

Her  sons  walk’d  godlier  in  thought,  and  heavenlier  in  grace; 
And  she  watch’d  with  stealthy  constancy  the  goddess’  every 
move, 

Lest  she  should  bear  away  for  aye  the  children  of  her  love. 
Each  evening  at  the  twilight  hour  Ceres  retired  apart 
With  the  youths  she  loved,  to  work  for  them  a rite’s  mys- 
terious art; 

She  sooth’d  them  to  deep  slumber,  then  spread  a couch  of 
f.a?ue, 


368 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


There  she  nightly  laid  them  till  they  less  and  less  of  earth 
became. 

Such  is  the  art  which  still  survives,  such  is  the  penal  pain 
Through  which  the  sons  of  earth  to  a spirit-life  attain; 

But  Metanira,  on  an  eve,  this  ordeal  chanced  to  spy, 

It  roused  the  human  mother’s  fear,  she  raised  a fearful  cry — 
The  spell  was  broke,  Diephon  woke  to  perish  in  the  fire, 
And  Triptolemus  scarce  escaped  for  death  more  quick  and 
dire; 

And  Ceres,  moaning  piteously,  forever  passed  away, 

And  Celeus  never  saw  her  more,  though  he  sought  her  many 
a day. 

Even  yet  Diephon’s  destiny  tunes  many  an  Attic  lyre, 

How  he  perish’d  earth- waked  on  the  couch  of  purifying  fire ! 


HANNIBAL'S  VISION  OF  THE  GODS  OF  CARTHAGE.™ 

I. 

I swear  to  thee,  Silenus,  ’t  was  not  an  idle  dream, 

When  the  gods  of  Carthage  call’d  me  by  the  Ebro’s  rushing 
stream, 

When  I stood  amid  the  council  of  the  deities  of  Tyre — 

And  I felt  a spirit  on  me,  the  spirit  of  my  sire. 


n. 

You  know  if  I am  fearful,  yet  I quiver’d  when  I saw 
The  mighty  form  of  Kronos,  full  of  majesty  and  awe — 

His  glance  was  far  and  lifted,  like  one  looking  into  space, 
When  he  turn’d  it  full  upon  me  abash’d  I hid  my  face. 

in. 

I heard  the  thrones  communing  in  a language  strange  and 
high. 

Words  of  earth  and  words  of  heaven,  in  opinion  and  reply; 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


3G9 


Names  and  actions  all  familiar,  cherish’d  secrets  all  untold, 
Were  mingled  in  their  councils  with  the  unknown  and  the 
old. 

IV. 

The  prayer  I pray’d  at  Gades,  the  boyish  oath  I swore — 
The  slaughter  at  Saguntum  which  slaked  the  thirsty  shore, 
The  tribes  we  smote  at  Tagus,  all  the  actions  of  my  youth 
Pass’d  bodily  before  me,  till  I trembled  at  their  truth. 


Then  a deity  descended  and  touch’d  me  with  his  hand, 

And  I saw,  outspread  before  me,  the  fair  Italian  land; 

Its  interwoven  valleys,  where  the  vine  and  olive  grow 
And  the  god  who  touch’d  me,  speaking,  said  gently,  “ Rise 
and  go !” 

VI. 

But  I knelt  and  gazed,  as  gazing  I would  have  aye  remain’d, 
This  was  the  destined  labor — this  was  the  task  ordain’d — 
As  like  a dragon  breathing  fire,  I was  loosed  to  overrun 
These  gardens  of  all  flowers,  these  cities  of  the  Sun. 

VII. 

Where  on  snow-fed  Eridanus  the  sacred  poplars  grieve, 
Where  the  artists  of  Etruria  their  spells  and  garments 
weave ; 

By  a lake  amid  the  mountains,  by  a gliding  southern  stream. 
Hosts  and  consuls  fell  before  me — I swear *t  was  not  a dream. 

vm. 

We  smote  them  with  the  sling,  we  smote  them  with  the  bow 
Libyan  and  Numidian,  and  Iberian  footmen  slow; 

And  the  elephants  of  Ind,  and  the  lances  of  the  Gaul, 

Bore  the  standard  of  our  Carthage,  victorious  over  all. 


370 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


t 

IX. 

I heard  the  voice  of  wailing,  I heard  the  voice  of  Rome, 

Then  I knew  my  day  was  waning,  I knew  my  hour  was  come, 

For  to  me  a bound  is  given  by  the  gods  whom  I obey, 

And  the  wail  of  Rome  must  usher  in  the  evening  of  my 
day. 


x. 


But  I swear  to  thee,  Silenus,  since  the  vision  of  that  night. 
When  all  the  Tyrian  deities  were  given  to  my  sight, 

I cast  no  look  behind  me,  I nurse  no  weak  desires 
For  the  lovely  one  I quitted,  for  the  palace  of  my  sires. 


XI. 

The  daughter  of  Caluso,  whose  beauty  thou  hast  seen, 
The  ample  halls  of  Barca,  are  as  visions  that  have  been; 
The  belov’d  ancestral  city,  with  its  temples  and  its  walls, 
Has  no  message  which  my  spirit  from  its  destiny  recalls. 


XII. 


Beyond  those  peaks  of  crystal,  my  path  lies  on  and  on, 
Where  the  gods  have  drawn  the  channel  there  must  the 
river  run; 

For  me,  a tomb  or  triumph,  exile  or  welcome  home — 

But  the  dragon  of  the  vision  must  work  its  work  at  Rome ! 


THE  ANSWER  OF  SIMONIDES. 

I. 

“ What  say’st  thou?”  Unto  Simonides 
King  Hiero  spake:  “ O thou  wise ! 

Who  yieldeth  yonder  orb  its  rays — 

Who  setteth  the  night-watch  in  the  skies  ? 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


371 


f 


Who  stirreth  up  this  wondrous  sea 
That  waiteth  here  in  Syracuse  ? 

If  thou  hast  read  this  mystery, 

I pray  thee  do  not  thy  friend  refuse !” 

“ Of  nights  and  days  I ask  for  seven, 

0 King  ! for  this  secret  lies  in  heaven.” 

n. 

Seven  nights  were  pass’d  and  seven  days, 
When  thus  again  King  Hiero  said — 

“ I pray  thee,  wise  Simonides, 

Hast  thou  our  last  week’s  riddle  read  ? 

1 know  thou  art  not  rash  to  speak, 

Nor  dost  thou  fear  what  may  befall, 

That  light  will  from  thy  darkness  break — 
Now  who  is  God  and  Lord  of  all?” 

But  he  answer’d  : “ Grant  me  another  seven 

Days,  for  this  secret  bides  in  heaven !” 

m. 

Seven  days  more  were  overpast, 

And  Hiero  sought  the  sage’s  cell, 

Assured  the  hour  was  come  at  last, 

The  secret  of  the  skies  to  tell; 

But  he  found  the  prophet  worn  and  wan 
With  travail,  and  vigil,  and  lonely  thought; 
r<  It  is  not  given  to  mortal  man 

To  find,”  he  said,  “ that  which  I sought: 

Wherefore,  if  all  life’s  days  were  given, 

O King,  I still  should  ask  for  seven  l” 


372 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY . 


THE  JEWS  IN  BABYLON. 

[Psalm  cxxxvi.,  verse  i.,  “ Upon  the  rivers  of  Babylon,  there  we  sat  and 
wept,  and  we  remembered  Sion ; v.  ii.  On  the  willows  in  the  midst  thereof  we 
hung  up  our  instruments ; v.  iii.  For  there  they,  that  led  us  into  captivity, 
required  of  us  the  words  of  song.  And  they  that  carried  us  away  said:  ‘ Sing 
ye  to  us  a hymn  of  the  songs  of  Sion v.  iv.  How  shall  we  sing  the  songs  of  the 
Lord  in  a strange  land  ?” 

i- 

The  sun  dwelt  on  the  royal  domes 
Of  Babylon  the  great — 

The  captives  sat  upon  the  stones 
Without  the  water  gate; 

The  river  through  the  willows  rush’d, 

Where  they  their  harps  have  hung, 

For  sorrow  all  their  songs  had  hush’d 
And  all  their  harps  unstrung. 

n. 

Forth  came  a thoughtless  city  throng, 

And  round  the  mourners  drew — 

“Come,  sing  to  us  a Sion  song, 

And  string  your  harps  anew  ?” 

“ Ah  no,  not  so  !”  the  captives  said, 

“Not  in  a stranger  land — 

Song  from  our  hearts  is  banished. 

And  skill  from  every  hand. 

m. 

“ Jerusalem ! dear  Jerusalem, 

Could  thy  sons  sing  or  play, 

And  thou  that  art  all  earth  to  them 
So  fallen  and  far  away  ? 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


373 


O,  Sion  1 may  the  tongue  or  hand 
That  first  forgets  thee,  rot — 

If  thou  art  fallen,  our  native  land, 
Thou  art  not  quite  forgot.” 


rv. 

The  Babylonian  troop  are  gone 
In  thoughtful  mood,  away — 

The  rivers  and  their  tears  flow  on, 
And  none  their  grief  gainsay: 

Their  sad  harps  on  the  willows  swing, 
Their  lips  in  secret  pray — 

That  yet  in  Sion  they  may  sing 
Their  native  Sion  lay. 


AN  EASTERN  LEGEND. 


I. 

Once  there  was  a Persian  monarch, 

(So  the  Persian  poets  sing,) 

Aged,  honor’d,  great,  religious, 

Every  inch  a man  and  king; 

Night  and  Morning  were  his  subjects, 
North  and  South  bow’d  down  the  head, 
All  went  well  within  his  palace, 

Till  his  only  son  fell  dead. 


n. 

Then  his  grief  broke  out  in  frenzy, 

On  the  floor  he  dash’d  his  crown, 
Tore  his  gray  beard  in  his  madness, 
Call’d  God’s  lightning  impious  down. 


4 


374 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


Till  at  length  a Sage  of  sages, 

Who  the  Past  and  Future  read, 

By  command  was  brought  before  him, 
Order’d  to  restore  the  Dead ! 


m. 

And  the  Sage  but  stipulated 
This  condition  with  the  King, 

That  three  men  who  never  suffer’d 
Sorrow,  first  they  there  should  bring; 
Then  the  mighty  monarch’s  servants 
Sought  the  three  afar  and  long, 

But  the  happiest  had  known  sorrow, 
Disappointment,  loss,  or  wrong ! 

IV. 

Then  the  mighty  Persian  monarch, 

(So  the  Persian  poets  sing,) 

Seeing  sorrow  universal, 

Felt  himself  again  a king; 

Calmly  for  the  path  of  duty 
Girded  he  his  armor  on, 

And  perform’d  his  royal  labors, 

Till,  in  time,  he  found  his  son. 


CALEB  AND  JOSHUA. 

[In  the  13th  and  14th  chapters  of  the  Book  of  Numbers,  the  reader  will  find  the 
history  herein  paraphrased.]  * 

I. 

When  Moses  led  the  doubting  host 
From  Pharoah’s  power  and  Egypt’s  coast, 

God  was  his  ally  and  his  guide 
Through  fordless  floods  and  deserts  wide; 

1“ — 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


375 


Though  years  were  spent  and  young  men  bent — 
Famine  in  field,  and  feud  in  tent, 

The  valiant  Prophet  and  his  band 
Believed  and  sought  the  Promised  Land. 


n. 

Now  when  in  Pharan’s  sands  they  lay, 
Twelve  were  sent  forth  to  seek  the  way, 
Which  through  the  thick  of  foemen  lay; 
And  ten  returning,  pale  with  dread, 

Show’d  figs  and  grapes,  but  trembling  said, 
‘ A giant  race  of  Enac’s  brood 
Possess’d  the  soil,  where  cities  stood 
Mid  brazen  walls  and  towers  so  high, 

That  whoso  sought  to  take  must  die.” 


m. 

But  two — apart  from  all  the  rest — 

Loudly  the  trembling  tribes  address’d: 

“ The  walls,”  they  said,  “ and  towers  are  high, 
But  do  not  nearly  reach  the  sky — 

The  men  are  men  of  mighty  make; 

But,  if  we  brethren  courage  take 

And  trust  in  God  and  our  own  strength, 

We’ll  win  the  Promised  Land  at  length.” 


IV. 

Above  the  camp  there  came  a cloud, 
And  forth  from  it,  as  thunder  loud, 

A voice  of  power  which  swore,  of  men 
Alive,  and  in  the  desert  then, 

The  faithful  two  alone  should  tread 
The  Land  the  Lord  had  promised. 


T 


PDEMti  OP  UENMAL  Uimiif 


TO 


Men  have  perish’d,  years  have  flown, 
The  faithful  two  survive  alone, 

God’s  hostages  to  human  sense, 

That  faith  is  its  own  recompense. 
Caleb  ! Joshua ! when  will  men 
Put  trust  in  God,  as  ye  did  then  ? 
New  York,  1849. 


TEE  MA  GCA  BEES. 

[“ And  every  man  said  to  his  neigbor,  ‘ If  we  shall  all  do  as  onr  brethren 

have  done,  and  not  fight  against  the  heathen  for  our  lives  and  our  justifications, 
they  will  now  quickly  root  us  out  of  the  earth.’ 

“ And  they  determined  in  that  day,  saying — “ Whosoever  shall  come  up 
against  us  to  fight  on  the  Sabbath,  we  will  fight  against  him,  and  we  will  not 
all  die,  as  our  brethren  that  were  slain  in  the  secret  places.” — Maccabees , 
chap.  II.,  v.  40,  41. 


I. 

Darkness  o ’ershadow’d  Israel  all, 

Woe,  and  death,  and  lamentation; 

The  Heathen  walk’d  on  Sion’s  wall, 

The  Temple  all  was  desolation; 

A dumb  demoniac  shape  of  stone 
Was  raised  upon  God’s  holy  altar, 

Where  children  of  the  Faith  kneel  down, 

And  fearful  priests  through  false -rites  falter 


ii. 

Buried  the  Book  of  God,  the  spirit 
Of  Moses  and  of  David  gone — 

Lost  the  traditions  they  inherit, 

Their  Sabbath  scoff’d  and  spat  upon; 


POEMS  ON  CEXEUlL  HISTORY. 


Meek  recusants,  with  bent  necks  bare, 

Besought  swift  death  from  fire  and  sword. 

Of  all  deliverance  in  despair, 

Died,  rather  than  deny  the  Lord. 

hi. 

But  other  men  of  hardier  mood 

In  Modin’s  mountains  wander’d  free, 

Their  temple  the  o’erarching  wood, 

The  cave  their  solemn  sanctuary ; 

Men  who  had  sworn  they  would  not  die 
Like  shambles-sheep  a willing  prey, 

Had  sworn  to  meet  the  enemy 

Though  he  should  come  on  Sabbath-day. 

IV. 

Their  chiefs  were  Judas — Israel’s  shield, 

Her  buckler,  sword,  and  morning  star; 

The  first  in  every  arduous  field 
To  bear  the  burden  of  the  war ; 

And  Simon  sage,  the  man  of  lore, 

Whose  downcast  eyes  read  coming  signs; 

Who,  from  afar,  could  foes  explore, 

And  counteract  their  dark  designs. 


v. 

Oh,  valiant  Assidean  chiefs, 

How  well  your  fathers’  will  ye  wrought, 
How  lifted  Israel  from  her  griefs, 

And  bore  her  on  your  shields  aloft; 

“ She  shall  not  perish  !”  so  ye  swore — 
They  shall  not  root  us  out  of  earth; 

Our  fathers’  God  we  dare  adore, 

And  rule  the  realm  that  gave  us  birth.” 


378 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


VI. 

Oh  ! noble  pair  ! with  awful  odds 
Seron,  Lysias,  Nicanor,  come  ! 

Their  trust  is  in  their  Syrian  gods, 

Your  firmer  faith  is  in  your  own  ! 

How  valiantly,  year  after  year, 

Ye  gird  your  loins  for  warfare  grand  I 

How  proud  at  last  your  flag  ye  rear 
O’er  your  regenerated  land ! 

VII. 

O God ! I know  an  ancient  race 
As  sore  oppress’d  as  Israel  once, 

Fierce  foes  from  earth  would  fain  erase 
Our  faithful  fathers’  filial  sons; 

Wilt  Thou  not  grant  us  shield  and  sword 
For  this  last  Maccabean  war  ? 

A Simon  and  a Judas,  Lord ! 

Thy  outlaw’d  faithful  to  restore  ? 


THE  STAR  OF  THE  MAGI  AND  OF  BETHLEHEM. 

I. 

“ Whence  is  the  star  that  shineth  so  brightly  ? 

’Tis  not  of  those  that  arise  for  us  nightly — 

Pale  in  its  presence  appearing  all  others, 

It  looms  like  a first-born  over  its  brothers.” 

n. 

The  herds  of  Arabia  lay  gather’d  and  sleeping, 

The  sons  of  the  shepherds  their  watches  were  keeping, 
When  the  star  of  our  faith  all  lustrous  and  tender, 
Fill’d  the  desert  of  grass  with  the  sheen  of  its  splendor. 


t 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


379 


III. 

Then,  in  wonder  and  terror  they  ran  to  their  seers, 
Wisest  of  men,  in  those  primitive  years, 

Ishmael’s  priests,  the  renown’d  of  Sabse, 

Who  grew  pale  in  the  light  that  arose  o’er  Judea. 

IV. 

To  their  eyes,  star-reveal’ d,  an  angelical  choir 
Fill’d  the  heavens  with  timbrel,  and  anthem,  and  lyre, 
And  they  heard  through  the  calm  of  that  marvellous  morn 
That  the  king,  that  the  lion  of  Judah  was  born. 

v. 

Then  the  magi  and  lords  of  the  desert  arose, 

And  gath’ring  the  myrrh  in  the  Orient  that  grows, 

And  the  incense  of  Saba,  in  censer  and  coffer, 

And  the  virginal  ore  from  the  far  mines  of  Ophir ! 

VI. 

By  Jordan  they  sought  the  Messiah  in  Zion, 

The  desert-born  look’d  for  the  trace  of  “ the  Lion  ” — 
Dark,  dark  as  Sinai  enshrouded  in  thunder, 

Grew  Herod,  the  king,  at  their  tidings  of  wonder. 

VII. 

Again  rose  the  star  of  the  Orient,  to  guide  them 
To  the  ox  and  the  ass,  and  earth’s  Saviour  beside  them, 
Where,  child-like  and  weak,  the  Master  of  Ages 
Took  tribute  from  Araby’s  princes  and  sages. 

VIII. 

So  may  God  grant  to  us,  amid  all  our  demerit, 

The  faith,  love,  and  hope  of  the  men  of  the  desert, 

For  us,  as  for  them,  dawns  the  marvellous  morn, 

And  the  angels  are  singing — “ Lo  ! Jesus  is  born.” 
Ckristmas  Eve,  1851. 

t 


4 


380 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


YTU. 


RE  CONQUEST  OF  THE  SPANISH  LAND. 

I. 

Many  a day  in  summer  time  Ramiro,  from  the  North, 

On  the  fair  fields  of  the  South  impatiently  look’d  forth ; 

And  in  winter,  when  the  torrents  came  like  bandits  leaping 
down 

From  their  high  Asturian  homes,  he  avoided  tower  and 
town, 

And,  scowling  from  some  pathless  pass,  he  spent  the  fruitless 
day 

Counting  the  Moorish  castles  far  beneath  him  as  they  lay. 

n. 

By  the  altar  of  Saint  Jago  upon  Christmas  Eve  he  stood; 

Hoarsely  thunder’d  past  the  stream;  wildly  waved  the  naked 
wood. 

In  the  little  mountain  chapel  King  Ramiro  knelt  alone, 

When  Saint  Jago  thus  bespoke  him,  from  his  effigy  of  stone  : 

“ Ramiro,  King  Ramiro ! thou  who  wouldst  re-conquer  Spain, 

You  have  allies  in  the  winter,  in  the  darkness,  and  the  rain — 

Strike  when  your  foe  is  weakest,  and  you  shall  not  strike 
in  vain !” 


m. 

On  the  banks  of  the  Douro  there  is  darkness — there  is  rain; 
On  the  banks  of  the  Douro  there  is  striking — not  in  vain  ! 
The  eagles  of  the  North,  from  their  high  Asturian  nests, 

Are  fasten’d  on  the  Moslems,  like  falcons  in  their  crests. 

On  the  domes  of  Compostello  there  is  darkness — there  is 
rain, 

And  beneath  feasts  King  Ramiro,  the  Deliverer  of  Spain. 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


381 


THE  VIRGIN  MARY'S  KNIGHT"* 

A BALLAD  OF  THE  CRUSADES. 

Beneath  the  stars  in  Palestine  seven  knights  discoursing 
stood, 

But  not  of  warlike  work  to  come,  nor  former  fields  of  blood, 
Nor  of  the  joy  the  pilgrims  feel,  prostrated  far,  who  see 
The  hill  where  Christ’s  atoning  blood  pour’d  down  the  penal 
tree; 

Their  theme  was  old,  their  theme  was  new,  ’twas  sweet  and 
yet  ’twas  bitter, 

Of  noble  ladies  left  behind  spoke  cavalier  and  ritter. 

And  eyes  grew  bright,  and  sighs  arose  from  every  iron  breast, 
For  a dear  wife,  or  plighted  maid,  far  in  the  widowed  West. 

Toward  the  knights  came  Constantine,  thrice  noble  by  his 
birth, 

A.nd  ten  times  nobler  than  his  blood,  his  high  out-shining 
worth, 

His  step  was  slow,  his  lips  were  moved,  though  not  a word 
he  spoke, 

Till  a gallant  lord  of  Lombardy  his  spell  of  silence  broke. 

“ What  aileth  thee,  O Constantine,  that  solitude  you  seek  ? 

If  counsel  or  if  aid  you  need,  we  pray  thee  do  but  speak; 

Or  dost  thou  mourn,  like  other  frhres , thy  lady-love  afar, 
Whose  image  shineth  nightly  through  yon  European  star  ?” 

Then  answer’d  courteous  Constantine,  “ Good  Sir,  in  simple 
truth, 

I chose  a gracious  lady  in  the  heydey  of  my  youth, 

I wear  her  image  on  my  heart,  and  when  that  heart  is  cold, 
The  secret  may  be  rifled  thence,  but  never  must  be  told. 


382 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY 


For  her  I love  and  worship  well  by  light  of  morn  or  even, 

I ne’er  shall  see  my  mistress  dear,  until  we  meet  in  heaven, 
But  this  believe,  brave  cavaliers,  there  never  was  but  one 
Such  lady  as  my  holy  love,  beneath  the  blessed  sun.” 

He  ceased,  and  pass’d  with  solemn  step  on  to  an  olive  grove, 
And  kneeling  there  he  prayed  a prayer  to  the  lady  of  his 
love, 

And  many  a cavalier  whose  lance  had  still  maintained  his 
own 

Beloved  to  reign  without  a peer,  all  earth’s  unequall’d  one, 
Look’d  tenderly  on  Constantine  in  camp  and  in  the  fight; 
With  wonder  and  with  generous  pride  they  mark’d  the  light- 
ning light 

Of  his  fearless  sword  careering  through  the  unbelievers’ 
ranks, 

As  angry  Rhone  sweeps  off  the  vines  that  thicken  on  his 
banks. 

“He  fears  not  death  come  when  it  will,  he  longeth  for  his 
love, 

And  fain  would  find  some  sudden  path  to  where  she  dwells 
above. 

How  should  he  fear  for  dying  when  his  mistress  dear  ia 
dead?” 

Thus  often  of  Sir  Constantine  his  watchful  comrades  said; 
Until  it  chanced  from  Sion  wall  the  fatal  arrow  flew, 

That  pierced  the  outworn  armor  of  his  faithful  bosom 
through ; 

And  never  was  such  mourning  made  for  knight  in  Palestine 
As  thy  loyal  comrades  made  for  thee,  beloved  Constantine ! 

Beneath  the  royal  tent  the  bier  was  guarded  night  and  day, 
Where  with  a halo  round  his  head  the  Christian  champion 
lay; 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


383 


That  talisman  upon  his  breast — what  may  that  marvel  be 
Which  kept  his  ardent  soul  through  life  from  every  error 
free  ? 

Approach ! behold ! nay,  worship  there  the  image  of  his 
love, 

The  heavenly  queen  who  reigneth  all  the  sacred  hosts  above 
Nor  wonder  that  around  his  bier  there  lingers  such  a light, 
For  the  spotless  one  that  sleepeth,  was  the  Blessed  Virgin  i 
Knight ! 

Written  on  Lady-day,  1853. 


COLUMB  US. 

A FRAGMENT. 

I. 

Star  of  the  Sea,  to  whom,  age  after  age, 

The  maiden  kneels  whose  lover  sails  the  sea — 
Star,  that  the  drowning  death-pang  can  assuage, 
And  shape  the  soul’s  course  to  eternity — 
Mother  of  God,  in  Bethlehem’s  crib  confined, 
Mother  of  God,  to  Egypt’s  realm  exiled — 

Thee  do  I ask  to  aid  my  anxious  mind, 

And  make  this  book  find  favor  with  thy  child  1 

ii. 

Of  one  who  lived  and  labor’d  in  thy  ray, 

I would  rehearse  the  striving  and  success — 
Through  the  dense  past  I ne’er  shall  find  my  way 
Unless  thou  helpest,  holy  Comfortress ! 

A world  of  doubt  and  darkness  to  evade, 

An  ocean  all  unknown  to  Christian  kind — 
Another  world  by  nature’s  self  array’d, 

O’er  the  wide  waste  of  waves,  I seek  to  find  1 


384 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


m. 

From  Jesus  death  the  fifteenth  century’s  close 
Was  near  at  hand  for  all  the  elder  world, 

When  sharp  and  ominous  the  Orescent  rose 

On  shores  from  which  the  Holy  Cross  was  hurl’d — 
Constantine’s  city  saw  its  banner  torn, 

Its  shrines  all  down,  its  people  flying  far — 

Saw,  year  by  year,  the  Moslem  hosts  return 
With  some  fresh  trophies  of  the  Christian  war. 

IV. 

No  more  the  Red  Cross  in  the  West  inflamed 
The  valiant  to  the  ancient  enterprise — 

No  more  Jerusalem,  all  pale  and  maim’d, 

Bled,  like  its  Lord,  before  the  nation’s  eyes ! 

Godfrey  and  Richard  in  their  armor  slept, 

The  sword  of  Tancred  rusted,  sheath’d  in  clay — 

Europe  still  wept,  but  for  herself  she  wept, 

And  her  grief  wore  not,  in  Time’s  course,  away 

v. 

Rome  trembled,  like  Jerusalem  of  old, 

The  Tiber  shrank  at  every  eastern  breeze ; 

None  in  all  Christendom  was  found  so  bold 
To  seek  the  Sultan  in  his  new- won  seas; 

The  Adriatic  sky  by  day  was  dark, 

Italian  galleys  crept  more  close  to  shore; 

Venice,  beneath  the  Lion  of  Saint  Mark, 

Paid  the  Turk  tribute,  thankful  ’twas  not  more ! 

VI. 

France  gather’d  in  her  limbs,  like  one  benumb’d 
Beneath  an  icy  and  destructive  sky, 

And  once  before  the  Crescent  she  succumb’d, 

And  be»o-’d  the  peace  she  could  not  force  or  buv:  , 1 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


385 

Albion,  as  yet  disjointed  and  unbound, 

Slumber’d  securely  in  the  watery  West, 

One  only  champion  Europe  yet  had  found, 

One  only  arm  to  guard  her  naked  breast. 

VII. 

Among  the  troubled  Powers  swart  Spain  arose, 

Arm’d  and  inspired,  the  battle’s  brunt  to  bear — 
God’s  foes  were  hers,  but  even  for  heathen  foes 
Her  chivalry  would  open  a career; 

Gentle,  but  faithful,  constant  to  her  creed, 

Buoyant  amid  the  banners  of  the  field, 

Grave  in  the  council  at  the  hour  of  need, 

Europe’s  true  champion  and  Keligion’s  shield. 

VIII. 

Two  wedded  sovereigns  govern’d  in  Spain, 

He,  from  the  North,  as  cautious  and  as  cold — 

She,  from  the  South,  of  the  more  generous  strain, 

Less  bound  in  love  of  acres  or  of  gold; 

Isabel,  bright  and  generous  as  the  spring 

That  plants  the  primrose  in  the  peasant’s  path, 

And  Ferdinand,  the  sage  but  callous  king, 

Whose  muffled  hand  ne’er  left  the  sign  of  wrath. 
******* 


SEBASTIAN  CABOT  TO  HIS  LADY .in 

Dear,  my  Lady,  you  will  understand 
By  these  presents  coming  to  your  hand, 

Written  in  the  Hyperborean  seas, 

(Where  my  love  for  you  doth  never  freeze, ) 

Underneath  a sky  obscured  with  light, 

Albeit  call’d  of  mariners  the  night, 

y. 


386 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


That  my  thoughts  are  not  of  lands  unknown, 

Or  buried  gold  beneath  the  southern  zone, 

But  of  a treasure  dearer  far  to  me, 

In  a far  isle  of  the  sail-shadow’d  sea. 

I ask’d  the  Sun  but  lately  as  he  set, 

If  my  dear  Lady  in  his  course  he  met — 

That  she  was  matronly  and  passing  tall, 

That  her  young  brow  cover’d  deep  thought  withal, 
That  her  full  eye  was  purer  azure  far 
Than  his  own  sky,  and  brighter  than  a star; 

That  her  kind  hands  were  whiter  than  the  snow 
That  melted  in  the  tepid  tide  below, 

That  her  light  step  was  stately  as  her  mind, 
Steadfast  as  Faith,  and  soft  as  summer  wind ; 
Whether  her  cheek  was  pale,  her  eye  was  wet, 

And  where  and  when  my  Lady  dear  he  met  ? 

And  the  Sun  spoke  not:  next  I ask’d  the  Wind 
Which  lately  left  my  native  shores  behind, 

If  he  had  seen  my  Love  the  groves  among, 

That  round  our  home  their  guardian  shelter  flung, 

If  he  had  heard  the  voice  of  song  arise 

From  that  dear  roof  beneath  the  eastern  skies, 

If  he  had  borne  a prayer  to  heaven  from  thee 
For  a lone  ship  and  thy  lone  Lord  at  sea? 

And  the  Wind  answer’d  not,  but  fled  amain, 

As  if  he  fear’d  my  questioning  again. 

Anon  the  Moon,  the  meek-faced  minion  rose, 

But  nothing  of  my  love  could  she  disclose, — 

Then  my  soul,  moved  by  its  strong  will,  trod  back 
The  shimmering  vestige  of  our  vessel’s  track, 

And  I beheld  you,  darling,  by  our  hearth. 

Gone  was  your  girlish  bloom  and  maiden  mirth, 


1 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


387 


And  Care’s  too  early  print  was  on  the  brow, 
Where  I have  seen  the  sunshine  shamed  ere  now; 
And  as  unto  your  widow’d  bed  you  pass’d, 

I saw  no  more — tears  blinded  me  at  last. 

But  mourn  not,  Mary,  let  no  dismal  dream 
Darken  the  current  of  Hope’s  flowing  stream ; 
Trust  Him  who  sets  his  stars  on  high  to  guide 
Us  sinful  sailors  through  the  pathless  tide, 

The  God  who  feeds  the  myriads  of  the  deep, 

And  spreads  the  oozy  couches  where  they  sleep; 
The  God  who  gave  even  me  a perfect  wife, 

The  star,  the  lamp,  the  compass  of  my  life, 

Who  will  replace  me  on  a tranquil  shore, 

To  live  with  Love  and  you  for  evermore. 

The  watch  is  set,  the  tired  sailors  sleep, 

The  star-eyed  sky  o’erhangs  the  dreamy  deep — 

No  more,  no  more:  I can  no  further  write; 

Vain  are  my  sighs,  and  weak  my  words  this  night; 
But  kneeling  here,  amid  the  seething  sea, 

I pray  to  God,  my  best  beloved,  for  thee; 

And  if  that  prayer  be  heard,  as  well  it  may, 

Our  parting  night  shall  have  a glorious  day. 


JACQUES  CARTIER. 

i. 

[n  the  seaport  of  Saint  Malo,  ’twas  a smiling  morn,  in  May, 
When  the  Commodore  Jacques  Cartier  to  the  westward 
sail’d  away; 

In  the  crowded  old  cathedral  all  the  town  were  on  their 
knees, 

For  the  safe  return  of  kinsmen  from  the  undiscover’d  seas; 


388 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


And  every  autumn  blast  that  swept  o’er  pihnacle  and  pier, 

Fill’d  manly  hearts  with  sorrow  and  gentle  hearts  with  fear. 

n. 

A year  pass’d  o’er  Saint  Malo — again  came  round  the  day 

When  the  Commodore  Jacques  Cartier  to  the  westward 
sail’d  away; 

But  no  tidings  from  the  absent  had  come  the  way  they  went, 

And  tearful  were  the  vigils  that  many  a maiden  spent; 

And  manly  hearts  were  fill’d  with  gloom,  and  gentle  hearts 
with  fear, 

When  no  tidings  came  from  Cartier  at  the  closing  of  the 
year. 


m. 

But  the  Earth  is  as  the  Future,  it  hath  its  hidden  side, 

And  the  Captain  of  Saint  Malo  was  rejoicing,  in  his  pride, 

In  the  forests  of  the  North — while  his  townsmen  mourn’d 
his  loss 

He  was  rearing  on  Mount  Royal  the  Jleur-de-lis  and  cross; 
And  when  two  months  were  over  and  added  to  the  year, 
Saint  Malo  hail’d  him  home  again,  cheer  answering  to  cheer. 

IV. 

He  told  them  of  a region,  hard,  iron-bound  and  cold, 

Nor  seas  of  pearl  abounded,  nor  mines  of  shining  gold, 
Where  the  wind  from  Thule  freezes  the  word  upon  the  lip, 
And  the  ice  in  spring  comes  sailing  athwart  the  early  ship; 
He  told  them  of  the  frozen  scene  until  they  thrill’d  with  fear, 
And  piled  fresh  fuel  on  the  hearth  to  make  him  better  cheer. 


v. 

But  when  he  changed  the  strain — he  told  how  soon  is  cast 
In  early  spring  the  fetters  that  hold  the  waters  fast; 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


389 


How  the  winter  causeway,  broken,  is  drifted  out  to  sea, 

And  the  rills  and  rivers  sing  with  pride  the  anthem  of  tha 
free; 

How  the  magic  wand  of  summer  clad  the  landscape,  to  his 
eyes, 

Like  the  dry  bones  of  the  just,  when  they  wake  in  Paradise. 

VI. 

He  told  them  of  the  Algonquin  braves — the  hunters  of  the 
wild, 

Of  how  the  Indian  mother  in  the  forest  rocks  her  child; 

Of  how,  poor  souls ! they  fancy,  in  every  living  thing 

A spirit  good  or  evil,  that  claims  their  worshipping; 

Of  how  they  brought  their  sick  and  maim’d  for  him  to 
breathe  upon, 

And  of  the  wonders  wrought  for  them  through  the  Gospel 
of  St.  John.11* 

vn. 

He  told  them  of  the  river  whose  mighty  current  gave 

Its  freshness,  for  a hundred  leagues,  to  Ocean’s  briny  wave; 

He  told  them  of  the  glorious  scene  presented  to  his  sight, 

What  time  he  rear’d  the  cross  and  crown  on  Hochelagas 
height, 

And  of  the  fortress  cliff  that  keeps  of  Canada  the  key, 

And  they  welcomed  back  Jacques  Cartier  from  his  perik 
over  sea. 


JACQUES  CARTIER  AND  THE  CHILD. 

i. 

When  Jacques  Cartier  return’d  from  his  voyage  to  the  west- 
ward, 

All  was  uproar  in  Saint  Malo  and  shouting  of  welcome — 
Dear  to  his  heart  were  the  hail  and  the  grasp  of  his  towns- 
men. 


390 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


And  dear  to  his  pride  the  favor  and  thanks  of  King  Francis. 
But  of  all  who  drew  nigh — such  was  the  cast  of  his  nature — 
A god-child  beloved,  he  most  delighted  to  answer 
On  all  the  surmises  that  fill  the  fancy  of  children. 


n. 

“ Tell  me,”  she  said,  “ what  you  found  far  away  in  the  wood- 
lands ; 

Say  how  you  felt  when  you  saw  the  savages  standing 
Arm’d  on  the  shore,  and  heard  the  first  sound  of  their  war- 
cry? 

Were  you  afraid  then  ?”  Quietly  smiled  the  brave  sailor — 

“ Nay,  little  daughter,”  he  said,  “ I was  not  afraid  of  the 
red  men; 

But  when  I saw  them,  I sighed,  alas ! for  the  bondage, 

The  darkness  that  hangs  over  all  the  lost  children  of  Adam. 
As  I in  the  depths  of  their  forests  might  wander  and  wander 
Deeper  and  deeper,  and  finding  no  outlet  forever — 

So  they,  in  the  old  desolation  of  folly  and  error, 

Are  lost  to  their  kindled  divine  in  mansions  eternal. 

m. 

“ And  then,  daughter  dearest,  I bless’d  G-od  in  truth  and  in 
secret, 

That  he  had  not  suffer’d  my  lot  to  be  with  the  heathen, 

But  cast  it  in  France — among  a people  so  Christian ; 

And  then  I bethought  me,  peradventure  to  me  it  is  given 
To  lead  the  vanguard  of  Truth  to  the  inmost  recesses 
Of  this  lost  region  of  souls  who  know  not  the  Gospel. 

And  these  were  the  thoughts  I had  far  away  in  the  wood- 
lands, 

When  I saw  the  savages  arm’d,  and  heard  the  roar  of  their 
war-cry,” 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


391 


VERSES  IN  HONOR  OF  MARGARET  BO  URGEO  YS. 1 19 


Dakk  is  the  light  of  Prophecy — no  heavenly  dews  distill 
On  Sion’s  rock,  on  Jordan’s  vale,  or  Hermon’s  holy  hill — 

“ Save  us,  0 Lord  /”  the  Psalmist  cries,  pouring  his  soul’s 
complaint; 

Save  us,  O Lord ! in  these  our  days,  for  Israel  has  no  Saint. 
Not  half  so  dark  the  sky  of  night,  her  starry  hosts  without, 
As  the  night-time  of  the  nations  when  God’s  living  lamps  go 
out. 


But  wondrous  is  the  love  of*  God ! who  sends  his  shining 
host, 

From  age  to  age,  from  race  to  race,  from  utmost  coast  to 
coast; 

And  wondrous  ’twas  in  our  own  land — e’en  on  the  spot  we 
tread — 

Ere  yet  the  forest  monarchs  to  the  axe  had  bow’d  the  head, 

That  in  our  very  hour  of  dawn,  a light  for  us  was  set, 

Here  on  the  royal  mountain’s  side,  whose  lustre  guides  us 
yet. 

’Tis  pleasant  in  the  gay  greenwood — so  all  the  poets  sing — 

To  breathe  the  very  breath  of  flowers,  and  hear  the  sweet 
birds  sing, 

’Tis  pleasant  to  shut  out  the  world — behind  their  curtain 
green, 

And  live  and  laugh,  or  muse  and  pray,  forgotten  and  unseen; 

But  men  or  angels  seldom  saw  a sight  to  heaven  more  dear, 

Than  Sister  Margaret  and  her  flock,  upon  our  hillside  here. 

From  morn  till  eve,  a hum  arose,  above  the  maple  trees, 
i A hum  of  harmony  and  praise  from  Sister  Margaret’s  bees ; 


392 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY, 


Egyptian  hue  and  speech  uncouth,  grew  fair  and  sweet,  when 
won 

To  sing  the  song  of  Mary,  and  to  serve  her  Saviour  Son; 
The  courier  halted  on  his  path,  the  sentry  on  his  round, 

And  bare-head  bless’d  the  holy  nun  who  made  it  holy  ground. 

There  came  a day  of  tempest,  where  all  was  peace  before — 
The  Huron  war-cry  rang  dismay  on  Hochelaga’s  shore — 
Then  in  that  day  all  men  confess’d,  with  all  man’s  humbled 
pride, 

How  brave  a heart,  till  G-od’s  good  time,  a convent  serge  may 
hide. 

The  savage  triumph’d  o’er  the  saint — a tiger  in  the  fold — 
But  the  mountain  mission  stands  to-day  ! the  Huron’s  tale  is 
told! 

Glory  to  God  who  sends  his  saints  to  all  the  ends  of  earth, 
Wherever  Adam’s  erring  race  have  being  or  have  birth, 
Giory  to  God  who  sheds  his  saints,  our  sunshine  and  our 
dew, 

Through  all  the  realms  and  nations  of  the  Old  World  and  the 
New, 

Who  perfumes  the  Pacific  with  his  lily  and  his  rose, 

Who  sent  his  holy  ones  tob  less  and  bloom  amid  our  snows ! 

Dear  Mother  of  our  mountain  home ! loved  foundress  of  our 
school — 

Pray  for  thy  children  that  they  keep  thy  every  sacred  rule, 
Beseech  thy  glorious  Patron — our  Lady  full  of  grace — 

To  guide  and  guard  thy  sisterhood — and  her  who  fills  thy 
place, 

Thy  other  self — to  whom  we  know  all  glad  obedience  given 
As  rendered  to  thyself  will  be  repaid  tenfold  in  heaven  ! 

For  thee,  my  Country ! many  are  the  gifts  God  gives  to  thee, 
And_^lmjmisjs  thine  aspect,  from  the  sunset  to  the  sea; 


i 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


393 


And  many  a cross  is  in  thy  midst,  and  many  an  altar  fair, 
And  many  a place  where  men  may  lay  the  burden  that  they 
bear. 

Ah ! may  it  be  thy  crowning  gift,  the  last  as  ’twas  the  first, 
To  see  thy  children  at  the  knee  of  Margaret  Bourgeoys 
nursed. 

Montreal,  October,  1866. 


“ OUR  LA  DYE  OF  THE  SNOW!” 

If,  Pilgrim,  chance  thy  steps  should  lead 
Where,  emblem  of  our  holy  creed, 
Canadian  crosses  glow — 

There  you  may  hear  what  here  you  read, 
And  seek,  in  witness  of  the  deed, 

Our  Ladye  of  the  Snow  /12° 

i. 

In  the  old  times  when  France  held  sway 
From  the  Balize  to  Hudson’s  Bay 
O’er  all  the  forest  free, 

A noble  Breton  cavalier 
Had  made  his  home  for  may  a year 
Beside  the  Rivers  Three. 

n. 

To  tempest  and  to  trouble  proof, 

Rose  in  the  wild  his  glitt’ring  roof 
To  every  trav’ler  dear; 

The  Breton  song,  the  Breton  dance, 

The  very  atmosphere  of  France, 

Diffused  a generous  cheer. 


i 

394  POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 

III. 

Strange  sight  that  on  those  fields  of  snow 
The  genial  vine  of  Gaul  should  grow 
Despite  the  frigid  sky  ! 

Strange  power  of  man’s  all-conqu’ring  will. 
That  here  the  hearty  Frank  can  still 
A Frenchman  live  and  die ! 

IV. 

The  Seigneur’s  hair  was  ashen  gray, 

But  his  good  heart  held  holiday, 

As  when,  in  youthful  pride, 

He  bared  his  shining  blade  before 
De  Tracey’s  regiment  on  the  shore 
Which  France  has  glorified. 

v. 

Gay  in  the  field,  glad  in  the  hall, 

The  first  at  danger’s  frontier  call, 

The  humblest  devotee — 

Of  God  and  of  St.  Catherine  dear 
Was  the  stout  Breton  cavalier 

Beside  the  Kivers  Three. 

VI. 

When  bleak  December’s  chilly  blast 
Fetter’d  the  flowing  waters  fast, 

And  swept  the  frozen  plain — 
When,  with  a frighten’d  cry,  half  heard, 
Far  southward  fled  the  Arctic  bird, 

Proclaiming  winter’s  reign — 


VII. 

His  custom  was,  come  foul,  come  fair. 
For  Christmas  duties  to  repair 
Unto  the  Ville  Marie, 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


395 


The  city  of  the  mount,  which  north 
Of  the  great  River  looketh  forth, 
Across  its  sylvan  sea. 

VIII. 

Fast  fell  the  snow,  and  soft  as  sleep 
The  hillocks  look’d  like  frozen  sheep, 
Like  giants  gray  the  hills — 
The  sailing  pine  seem’d  canvas-spread 
With  its  white  burden  overhead, 

And  marble  hard  the  rills. 

IX. 

A thick  dull  light  where  ray  was  none 
Of  moon,  or  star,  or  cheerful  sun, 

Obscurely  show’d  the  way — 
While  merrily  upon  the  blast 
The  jingling  horse-bells,  pattering  fast, 
’Timed  the  glad  roundelay. 


Swift  eve  came  on,  and  faster  fell 
The  winnow’d  storm  on  ridge  and  dell, 
Effacing  shape  and  sign — 
Until  the  scene  grew  blank  at  last, 

As  when  some  seamen  from  the  mast 

Looks  o’er  the  shoreless  brine. 


Nor  marvel  aught  to  find  ere  long 
In  such  a scene  the  death  of  song 
Upon  the  bravest  lips — 

The  empty  only  could  be  loud 
When  Nature  fronts  us  in  her  shroud 
Beneath  the  sky’s  eclipse. 


390 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


XII. 

Nor  marvel  more  to  find  the  steed, 
Though  famed  for  spirit  and  for  speed, 
Drag  on  a painful  pace — 

With  drooping  crest,  and  faltering  foot, 
And  painful  whine,  the  weary  brute 
Seems  conscious  of  disgrace. 


xm. 

Until  he  paused  with  mortal  fear, 

Then  plaintive  sank  upon  the  mere 
Stiff  as  a steed  of  stone — 

In  vain  the  master  winds  his  horn, 

None,  save  the  howling  wolves  forlorn 
Attend  the  dying  roan. 

xrv. 

Sad  was  the  heart  and  sore  the  plight 
Of  the  benumb’d,  bewilder’d  knight 

Now  scrambling  through  the  storm. 
At  every  step  he  sank  apace — 

The  death-dew  freezing  on  his  face — 

In  vain  each  loud  alarm ! 

xv. 

The  torpid  echoes  of  the  rock 
Answer’d  with  one  unearthly  mock 
Of  danger  round  about ! 

Then  muffled  in  their  snowy  robes, 

Betiring  sought  their  bleak  abodes, 

And  gave  no  second  shout. 


Down  on  his  knees  himself  he  cast, 
Deeming  that  hour  to  be  his  last, 
Yet  mindful  of  his  faith — 


T 


POEMS  0N~  GENERAL  HISTORY 


397 


He  pray’d  St.  Catherine  and  St.  John, 

And  our  dear  Ladye  call’d  upon 

For  grace  of  happy  death. 

XYII. 

When  lo  ! a light  beneath  the  trees, 

Which  clank  their  brilliants  in  the  breeze — 
And  lo  ! a phantom  fair, 

As  God’s  in  heaven  ! by  that  bless’d  light 
Our  Lady’s  self  rose  to  his  sight 

In  robes  that  spirits  wear  ! 

XVIII. 

Oh ! lovelier,  lovelier  far  than  pen, 

Or  tongue,  or  art,  or  fancy’s  ken 

Can  picture,  was  her  face — 

Gone  was  the  sorrow  of  the  sword, 

And  the  last  passion  of  our  Lord 
Had  left  no  living  trace ! 

XIX. 

As  when  the  moon  across  the  moor 
Points  the  lost  peasant  to  his  door, 

And  glistens  on  his  pane — 

Or  when  along  her  trail  of  light 
Belated  boatmen  steer  at  night, 

A harbor  to  regain — 


xx. 

So  the  warm  radiance  from  her  hands 
Unbind  for  him  Death’s  icy  bands, 

And  nerve  the  sinking  heart — 
Her  presence  makes  a perfect  path. 

Ah  ! he  who  such  a helper  hath 
May  anywhere  depart. 


4 _ 

3<)8  POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 

XXI. 

All  trembling,  as  she  onward  smiled, 
Follow’d  that  Knight  our  mother  mild, 
Yowing  a grateful  vow — 

Until  far  down  the  mountain  gorge 
She  led  him  to  the  antique  forge, 

Where  her  own  shrine  stands  now. 


XXII. 

If,  Pilgrim,  chance  thy  steps  should  lead 
Where,  emblem  of  our  holy  creed, 
Canadian  crosses  glow — 

There  you  may  hear  what  here  you  read, 
And  seek,  in  witness  of  the  deed, 

Our  Ladye  of  the  Snow  ! 


THE  DEATH  OF  HUDSON. 

The  slayer  Death  is  everywhere,  and  many  a mask  hath  he, 
Many  and  awful  are  the  shapes  in  which  he  sways  the  sea; 
Sometimes  within  a rocky  aisle  he  lights  his  candle  dim, 

And  sits  half-sheeted  in  the  foam,  chanting  a funeral  hymn; 
Full  oft  amid  the  roar  of  winds  we  hear  his  awful  cry, 
Guiding  the  lightning  to  its  prey  through  the  beclouded  sky ; 
Sometimes  he  hides  ’neath  Tropic  waves,  and,  as  the  ship 
sails  o’er, 

He  holds  her  fast  to  the  fiery  sun,  till  the  crew  can  breathe 
no  more. 

There  is  no  land  so  far  away  but  he  meeteth  mankind  there — 
He  liveth  at  the  icy  pole  with  the  ’berg  and  the  shaggy  bear, 
He  smileth  from  the  southron  capes  like  a May  queen  in  her 
flowers, 

He  falleth  o’er  the  Indian  seas,  dissolved  in  summer  showers; 

i ' 


- * - 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY.  399 

But  of  all  the  sea-shapes  he  hath  worn,  may  mariners  never 
know 

Such  fate  as  Heinrich  Hudson  found,  in  the  labyrinths  of 
snow — 121 

The  cold  north  seas’  Columbus,  whose  bones  lie  far  interr’d 
Under  those  frigid  waters  where  no  song  was  ever  heard. 

Twas  when  he  sail’d  from  Amsterdam,  in  the  adventurous 
quest 

Of  an  ice-shored  strait,  through  which  to  reach  the  far  and 
fabled  West; 

His  dastard  crew — their  thin  blood  chill’d  beneath  the  Arctic 
sky— 

Combined  against  him  in  the  night;  his  hands  and  feet  they 
tie, 

A.nd  bind  him  in  a helmless  boat,  on  that  dread  sea  to  sail — 
Ah,  me ! an  oarless,  shadowy  skiff,  as  a schoolboy’s  vessel 
frail. 

Seven  sick  men,  and  his  only  son,  his  comrades  were  to  be, 
But  ere  they  left  the  Crescent’s  side,  the  chief  spoke,  daunt- 
lessly : 

“ Ho,  mutineers  ! I ask  no  act  of  kindness  at  your  hands — 
My  fate  I feel  must  steer  me  to  Death’s  still-silent  lands; 

But  there  is  one  man  in  my  ship  who  sail’d  with  me  of  yore, 
By  many  a bay  and  headland  of  the  New  World’s  eastern 
shore; 

From  India’s  heats  to  Greenland’s  snows  he  dared  to  follow 
me, 

And  is  he  turn’d  traitor  too,  is  he  in  league  with  ye  ?” 

Uprose  a voice  from  the  mutineers,  “ Not  I,  my  chief,  not  I — 
I’ll  take  my  old  place  by  your  side,  though  all  be  sure  to  die.” 

Before  his  chief  could  bid  him  back,  he  is  standing  at  his 
side  ; 

The  cable’s  cut — away  they  drift,  over  the  midnight  tide. 


400 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


No  word  from  any  lip  came  forth,  their  strain’d  eyes  steadily 
glare 

At  the  vacant  gloom,  where  late  the  ship  had  left  them  to 
despair. 

On  the  dark  waters  long  was  seen  a line  of  foamy  light — 

It  pass’d,  like  the  hem  of  an  angel’s  robe,  away  from  their 
eager  sight. 

Then  each  man  grasp’d  his  fellow’s  hand,  some  sigh’d,  but 
none  could  speak, 

While  on,  through  pallid  gloom,  their  boat  drifts  moaningly 
and  weak. 

Seven  sick  men,  dying,  in  a skiff  five  hundred  leagues  from 
shore ! 

Oh!  never  was  such  a crew  afloat  on  this  world’s  waves  be- 
fore; 

Seven  stricken  forms,  seven  sinking  hearts  of  seven  short- 
breathing men, 

Drifting  over  the  sharks’  abodes,  along  to  the  white  bear’s 
den. 

Oh ! ’twas  not  there  they  could  be  nursed  in  homeliness  and 
ease ! 

One  short  day  heard  seven  bodies  sink,  whose  souls  God 
rest  in  peace ! 

The  one  who  first  expired  had  most  to  note  the  foam  he 
made, 

And  no  one  pray’d  to  be  the  last,  though  each  the  blow 
delay’d. 

Three  still  remain.  “ My  son  ! my  son ! hold  up  your  head, 
my  son ! 

Alas  ! alas ! my  faithful  mate,  I fear  his  life  is  gone.” 

So  spoke  the  trembling  father — two  cold  hands  in  his  breast, 

Breathing  upon  his  dead  boy’s  face,  all  too  soft  to  break  his 
rest, 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


4- 


401 


The  roar  of  battle  could  not  wake  that  sleeper  from  his  sleep; 
The  trusty  sailor  softly  lets  him  down  to  the  yawning  deep; 
The  fated  father  hid  his  face  while  this  was  being  done, 

Still  murmuring  mournfully  and  low,  “ My  son,  my  only  son  ’’ 

Another  night;  uncheerily,  beneath  that  heartless  sky, 

The  iceberg  sheds  its  livid  light  upon  them  passing  by, 

And  each  beholds  the  other’s  face,  all  spectre-like  and  wan, 
And  even  in  that  dread  solitude  man  fear’d  the  eye  of  man ! 
Afar  they  hear  the  beating  surge  sound  from  the  banks  of 
frost, 

Many  a hoar  cape  round  about  looms  like  a giant  ghost, 

And,  fast  or  slow,  as  they  float  on,  they  hear  the  bears  on 
shore 

Trooping  down  to  the  icy  strand,  watching  them  evermore. 
The  morning  dawns;  unto  their  eyes  the  light  hath  lost  itg 


Nor  distant  sail,  nor  drifting  spar  within  their  ken  appear. 

Embay’d  in  ice  the  coffin-like  boat  sleeps  on  the  waveless  tide, 

Where  rays  of  deathly-cold,  cold  light  converge  from  every  side. 

Slow  crept  the  blood  into  their  hearts,  each  manly  pulse 
stood  still, 

Huge  haggard  bears  kept  watch  above  on  every  dazzling  hill. 

Anon  the  doom’d  men  were  entranced,  by  the  potent  frigid  air, 

And  they  dream,  as  drowning  men  have  dreamt,  of  fields  far 
off  and  fair. 

What  phantoms  fill’d  each  cheated  brain,  no  mortal  ever 
knew; 

What  ancient  storms  they  weather’d  o’er,  what  seas  explored 
anew; 

What  vast  designs  for  future  days — what  home  hope,  or 
what  fear — 

There  was  no  one  ’mid  the  ice-lands  to  chronicle  or  hear. 


cheer; 


— T 


402 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


So  still  they  sat,  the  weird  faced  seals  bethought  them  they 
were  dead, 

And  each  raised  from  the  waters  up  his  cautious  wizard  head, 

Then  circled  round  the  arrested  boat,  like  vampires  round  a 
grave, 

Till  frighted  at  their  own  resolve — they  plunged  beneath  the 
wave. 

Evening  closed  round  the  moveless  boat,  still  sat  entranced 
the  twain, 

When  lo  ! the  ice  unlocks  its  arms,  the  tide  pours  in  amain  ! 

Away  upon  the  streaming  brine  the  feeble  skiff  is  borne, 

The  shaggy  monsters  howl  behind  their  farewells  all  forlorn. 

The  crashing  ice,  the  current’s  roar,  broke  Hudson’s  fairy 
spell, 

But  never  more  shall  this  world  wake  his  comrade  tried  so 
well ! 

His  brave  heart’s  blood  is  chill’d  for  aye,  yet  shall  its  truth 
be  told, 

When  the  memories  of  kings  are  worn  from  marble  and  from 
gold. 

Onward,  onward,  the  helpless  chief — the  dead  man  for  his 
mate ! 

The  shark  far  down  in  ocean’s  depth  feels  the  passing  of  that 
freight, 

And  bounding  from  his  dread  abyss,  he  snuffs  the  upper  air, 

Then  follows  on  the  path  it  took,  like  lion  from  his  lair. 

O Ood ! it  was  a fearful  voyage  and  fearful  company, 

Nor  wonder  that  the  stout  sea-chief  quiver’d  from  brow  to 
knee. 

Oh  ! who  would  blame  his  manly  heart,  if  e’en  it  quaked  for 
fear, 


T 


While  whirl’d  along  on  such  a sea,  with  such  attend  a, nt  near  L 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


403 


£ 


The  shark  hath  found  a readier  prey,  and  turn’d  him  from 
the  chase; 

The  boat  hath  made  another  bay — a drearier  pausing  place — 
O’er  arching  piles  of  blue-vein’d  ice  admitted  to  its  still, 
White,  fathomless  waters,  palsied  like  the  doom’d  man’s  fet- 
ter’d will. 

Powerless  he  sat — that  chief  escaped  so  oft  by  sea  and  land — 
Death  breathing  o’er  him — all  so  weak  he  could  not  lift  a 
hand. 

Even  his  bloodless  lips  refused  a last  short  prayer  to  speak, 
But  angels  listen  at  the  heart  when  the  voice  of  man  is 
weak. 


His  heart  and  eye  were  suppliant  turn’d  to  the  ocean’s  Lord 
on  high, 

The  Borealis  lustres  were  gathering  in  the  sky; 

From  South  and  North,  from  East  and  West,  they  cluster’d 
o’er  the  spot 

Where  breathed  his  last  the  gallant  chief  whose  grave  man 
seeth  not; 

They  mark’d  him  die  with  steadfast  gaze,  as  though  in  heaven 
there  were 

A passion  to  behold  how  he  the  fearful  fate  would  bear; 

They  watch’d  him  through  the  livelong  night — these  couriers 
of  the  sky, 

Then  fled  to  tell  the  listening  stars  how  ’twas  they  saw  him 
die. 

He  sleepeth  where  old  Winter’s  realm  no  genial  air  invades, 

His  spirit  burneth  bright  in  heaven  among  the  glorious 
shades, 

Whose  God-like  doom  on  earth  it  was  creation  to  unfold, 

Spanning  this  mighty  orb  of  ours  as  through  the  spheres  it 

roll’d. 


404 


POEMS  ON  GENE  UAL  HISTORY. 


His  name  is  written  on  the  deep,  the  rivers  as  they  run 
Will  bear  it  time  ward  o’er  the  world,  telling  what  he  hath 
done; 

The  story  of  his  voyage  to  Death,  amid  the  Arctic  frosts, 
Will  be  told  by  mourning  mariners  on  earth’s  most  distant 
coasts. 


THE  LAUNCH  OF  THE  GRIFFIN. 

I. 

Within  Cayuga’s  forest  shade 

The  stocks  were  set — the  keel  was  laid — 

Wet  with  the  nightly  forest  dew, 

The  frame  of  that  first  vessel  grew.128 
Strange  was  the  sight  upon  the  brim 
Of  the  swift  river,  even  to  him 
The  builder  of  the  bark; 

To  see  its  artificial  lines 
Festoon’d  with  summer’s  sudden  vines, 
Another  New  World’s  ark. 

n. 

As  rounds  to  ripeness  manhood’s  schemes 
Out  of  youth’s  fond,  disjointed  dreams, 

So  ripen’d  in  her  kindred  wood 
That  traveller  of  the  untried  flood. 

And  often  as  the  evening  sun 
Gleam’d  on  the  group,  their  labor  done— 
The  Indian  prowling  out  of  sight 
Of  corded  friar  and  belted  knight — 
And  smiled  upon  them  as  they  smiled, 

The  builders  on  the  bark — their  child  ! 


i - L 

rOEZix  vi r ujcmaHAii  HISTORY.  405 

hi. 

The  hour  has  come:  upon  the  stocks 
The  masted  hull  already  rocks — 

The  mallet  in  the  master’s  hand 
Is  poised  to  launch  her  from  the  land. 

Beside  him,  partner  of  his  quest 
For  the  great  river  of  the  West, 

Stands  the  adventurous  Recollet 
Whose  page  records  that  anxions  day.123 
To  him  the  master  would  defer 
The  final  act — he  will  not  bear 
That  any  else  than  him  who  plann’d, 

Should  launch  “ the  Griffin  ” from  the  land. 

In  courteous  conflict  they  contend, 

The  knight  and  priest,  as  friend  with  friend— 

In  that  strange  savage  scene 
The  swift  blue  river  glides  before, 

And  still  Niagara’s  awful  roar 
Booms  through  the  vistas  green. 

IV. 

And  now  the  mallet  falls,  stroke — stroke — 

On  prop  of  pine  and  wedge  of  oak 
The  vessel  feels  her  way; 

The  quick  mechanics  leap  aside 
As,  rushing  downward  to  the  tide, 

She  dashes  them  with  spray. 

The  ready  warp  arrests  her  course, 

And  holds  her  for  a while  perforce, 

While  on  her  deck  the  merry  crew 
Man  every  rope,  loose  every  clew, 

And  spread  her  canvas  free. 

Away  ! ’tis  done  ! the  Griffin  floats, 

First  of  Lake  Erie’s  winged  boats — 

Her  flag,  the  Fleur-de-lis. 


4- 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY. 


406 


v. 

Gun  after  gun  proclaims  the  hour, 

As  nature  yields  to  human  power; 

And  now  upon  the  deeper  calm 
The  Indian  hears  the  holy  psalm — 
Laudamus  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts  ! 

Whose  name  unknown  on  all  their  coasts, 
The  inmost  wilderness  shall  know, 

Wafted  upon  yon  wings  of  snow 
That,  sinking  in  the  waters  blue, 

Seem  but  some  lake-bird  lost  to  view. 

VI. 

In  old  romance  and  fairy  lays 
Its  wondrous  part  the  Griffin  plays — 
Grimly  it  guards  the  gloomy  gate 
Seal’d  by  the  strong  behest  of  Fate — 

Or,  spreading  its  portentous  wings, 

Wafts  Virgil  to  the  Court  of  Kings; 

And  unto  scenes  as  wondrous  shall 
Thy  Griffin  bear  thee,  brave  La  Salle ! 

Thy  winged  steed  shall  stall  where  grows 
On  Michigan  the  sweet  wild  rose; 

Lost  in  the  mazes  of  St.  Clair, 

Shall  give  thee  hope  amid  despair, 

And  bear  thee  past  those  isles  of  dread 
The  Huron  peoples  with  the  dead, 

Where  foot  of  savage  never  trod 
Within  the  precinct  of  his  god; 194 
And  it  may  be  thy  lot  to  trace 
The  footprints  of  the  unknown  race 
’Graved  on  Superior’s  iron  shore, 

Which  knows  their  very  name  no  more.125 
Through  scenes  so  vast  and  wondrous  shall 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY.  407 

Thy  Griffin  bear  thee,  brave  La  Salle — 

True  Wizard  of  the  Wild ! whose  art, 

An  eye  of  power,  a knightly  heart, 

A patient  purpose  silence-nursed, 

A high,  enduring,  saintly  trust — 

Are  mighty  spells — we  honor  these, 

Columbus  of  the  inland  seas ! 


A PLEA  FOR  SPAIN. 

I. 

When  Asiatic  plague  and  darkness,  worse 
Than  that  which  late  appall’d  the  young  and  old, 
A cholera  smiting  souls,  with  IshmaePs  curse, 
Torrent-like,  from  the  gates  of  Mecca  roll’d; 

A deluge  from  below  ! it  surged  and  spread 
O’er  Salem,  Syria,  and  the  isles  of  Greece, 
Darkening  the  heavens,  save  where  a symbol  dread 
Its  crescent  rose  to  rob  the  West  of  peace. 

II. 

From  Jesus’  death,  the  fifteen  hundredth  year, 
Beheld  the  panic  of  the  Christian  world — 

Saw,  like  Death’s  ominous  and  fatal  shear, 

Mahomet’s  moon  on  Stamboul’s  towers  unfurl’d. 
Shrines  beaten  down,  a people  flying  far, 

The  Christian  banner  tremulous  and  torn, — 

Saw,  year  on  year,  the  Moslems  to  the  war, 

With  haughtier  pride  and  mightier  host  return. 

hi. 

No  more  the  Red  Cross  in  the  West  inflamed 
The  valiant  to  the  ancient  enterprise — 

In  vain,  Jerusalem,  all  pale  and  maim’d, 

Bled,  like  its  Lord,  a living  sacrifice; 


408 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY 


- 


Godfrey  and  Richard  in  their  armor  slept, 

The  sword  of  Tancred  rusted  in  the  clay — 
Europe  still  wept,  but  for  herself  she  wept, 

Her  grief  but  deep’ning  as  Hope  wore  away  I 


IV. 

Rome,  menaced  like  Jerusalem  of  old, 

Kept  open  ear  to  every  eastern  breeze, 

None  in  all  Christendom  was  there  so  bold 
To  seek  the  Sultan  in  his  new- won  seas; 

The  Adriatic  capes  by  day  were  dark. 

Sardinian  galleys  crept  in  close  to  shore; 

Venice,  beneath  the  Lion  of  Saint  Mark, 

Paid  the  Turk  tribute,  thankful  ’twas  no  more ! 

v. 

France  gather’d  in  her  limbs,  like  one  benumb’d 
Beneath  an  icy  and  destructive  sky, 

And  once  before  the  Crescent  she  succumb’d, 

And  once  she  begg’d  the  peace  she  could  not  buy; 
Albion,  as  yet  disjointed  and  unbound, 

Slumber’d  securely  in  the  watery  West, 

One  only  champion  Christendom  had  found, 

One  only  arm  to  guard  her  naked  breast. 


Among  the  troubled  Powers  swart  Spain  arose, 
Arm’d  and  inspired  the  battle’s  brunt  to  bear — 
God’s  foes  were  Spain’s — but  even  to  heathen  foes 
Her  chivalry  would  open  a career; 

Gentle  and  faithful — constant  to  her  creed — 
Joyful  amid  the  banners  of  the  field, 

Wisest  in  counc  1 at  the  hour  of  need, 

Ready  to  act  as  plan — or  sword  or  shield. 


i 


POEMS  ON  GENERAL  HISTORY 


409 


VII. 

Such  tnen  was  Spain  to  Christendom.  Oh ! shame 
That  you  and  I should  coldly  here  debate 
The  tribute  due  to  her,  whose  age  of  fame 
Bears,  like  a rock  aloft,  the  Christian  State ! 
Fitter  the  gather’d  nations  group’d  around 
Should  lay  their  annual  garlands  at  her  feet, 
Than  thus  and  here  conspirators  be  found 
To  rob  her  of  her  last  Atlantic  seat. 

VIII. 

We  are  but  young,  and  being  young,  must  learn 
The  past  hath  claims  even  as  the  present  hath — «■ 
One  eye  through  all  things  can  a cause  discern, 
One  hand  imperial  holds  the  bolt  of  Wrath. 

A common  reckoning  through  the  ages  runs, 

And  thine,  America,  to  Spain  lies  due; 

Arouse  thee,  then — restrain  thy  eager  sons, 

Nor  let  the  Old  World’s  story  shame  the  Newl 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


TEE  PARTING . 


I. 

Sad  the  parting  scene  was,  Mary  1 
By  the  yellow-flowing  Foyle, 

Dark  my  days  have  been,  and  dreary, 

All  this  long,  long  while : 

Now  the  hermit  of  misfortune, 

In  my  rock  I coldly  dwell; 

In  my  ears  are  booming  ever, 

“ God  be  with  you,  love — farewell  1” 

ii. 

Such  the  words  your  lips  last  utter’d — 
Mistress  of  my  woful  heart ; 

’Twas  the  first  time  you  were  pleasured, 
Thus  in  haste  with  me  to  part; 

For,  behind,  hot  foes  were  pressing 
After  him  you  loved  so  well; 

Sad  and  eager  was  our  parting — 

“ God  be  with  you,  love — farewell  I” 

hi. 

Nightly,  as  through  ocean’s  valleys. 

We  held  on  our  silent  way, 

Memory  brought  the  bitter  chalice 
Despots  fill’d  for  us  that  day; — 

lr- — — - — 


414 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


- 


In  my  exile  still  I drank  it, 

Darkest  gloom  upon  me  fell — 

Like  a requiem,  still  rang  round  me 
“ God  be  with  you,  love — farewell  1” 


IV. 

Daily  gazing  towards  the  eastward, 
Underneath  the  blinding  sun, 

I am  seeking  for  the  dear  ship 

Which  should  bring  my  chosen  one; 
Daily  do  I count  the  white  sails 
Looming  o’er  the  long  sea-swell — 
When  among  them  will  my  Mary 
Come  to  end  our  long  farewell  ? 


THOUGHTS  OF  IRELAND. 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  RIVER  HUDSON  DURING  THE  SUMMER  OF  1848. 

L 

’Tis  summer  in  the  green  woods  closely  growing 
In  valley  and  on  hill-side’s  steep, 

Their  shady  awnings  fringe  the  Hudson  softly  flowing 
O’er  its  sands  to  the  engulfing  deep. 

ii. 

’Tis  summer,  and  the  brilliant  birds  are  singing 
Songs  of  joy  under  Freedom’s  feckless  sky, 

And  mirth  and  plenty  round  me  luxuriantly  are  springing, 
But  they  neither  glad  my  heart  nor  eye. 

in. 

What  more,  to  me,  is  the  golden  summer  glowing, 

Without  you,  than  the  murkiness  of  March  ? 

What,  to  me,  is  the  Hudson  grandly  flowing 
Processional  through  its  mountainous  arch  ? 


L 

POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  415 

IV. 

Were  we  two  in  yon  boat  upon  its  current, 

Then,  indeed,  it  had  been  a stream  divine ; 

Every  ripple  on  its  tide  would  bear  an  errand, 

Every  rock  along  its  shore  be  a shrine ! 

v. 

Joy  dwelleth  not  for  man  in  the  external — 

Pleasure  cometh  not  to  us  from  afar; 

True  love  it  is  that  makes  the  very  desert  vernal, 

And  lights  the  deepest  darkness  like  a star. 

VI. 

In  vain  the  summer  spills  its  spikenard  round  me, 

Skies  brighten  and  flow’rs  bloom  for  me  in  vain; 

A parting  and  a memory  hath  so  bound  me, 

That  I could  bid  the  very  birds  refrain. 


VII. 

This  surely  is  the  noblest  of  new  nations, 

And  happy  at  their  birth  are  its  heirs; 

But  for  me,  I still  turn  to  the  isle  of  desolations, 
Where  the  joys  I felt  outcounted  all  the  cares. 

VIII. 

’Tis  summer  in  the  woods  where  we  together 
Have  gather’d  joy  and  garlands  long  ago — 

The  berries  on  the  brier,  the  blossoms  on  the  heather, 
The  Wicklow  streams  are  singing  as  they  flow. 


IX. 

There  Nature  worketh  wonders  less  gigantic — 
Man  rears  himself  not  there  so  sublime — 

But  still  I would  I were  beyond  the  vast  Atlantic, 
By  your  side  in  our  own  cloudy  clime  ! 


416 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


I 


X. 

But  God,  who  decrees  our  joys  and  trials, 
Hath  led  us  to  this  far  new  land — 

Hath  ordain’d  for  our  good  these  self-denials, 
Let  us  bow  beneath  his  Fatherly  hand  ! 


ST.  KEVIN'S  BED. 

I. 

Dost  thou  remember  the  dark  lake,  dearest, 

Where  the  sun  never  shines  at  noon  ; 

Dost  thou  remember  the  Saint’s  bed,  dearest, 

Carved  in  the  hard,  cold  stone  ? 

n. 

Dost  thou  remember  the  history,  dearest, 

Of  the  Saint  of  the  churches,  Kevin  ? 

Hard  was  his  couch  here,  and  desolate,  dearest, 

But  his  bed  is  now  made  in  heaven. 

m. 

Dost  thou  remember  the  waterfall,  dearest, 
Furrowing  the  rocks  so  gray  ? 

So,  through  this  stony  scene  the  sainted  one,  dearest, 
Channell’d  out  his  onward  way. 

IV. 

Out  of  the  dark  lake,  saw  ye  not,  dearest, 

Issue  the  light,  laughing  river  ? 

So,  from  his  cold  couch,  his  soul  went  up,  dearest, 
Like  a new  star,  to  God’s  sky,  forever. 

v. 

Oh ! never  forget  we  the  dark  lake,  dearest, 

And  the  moral  of  tales  told  there  ; 

So  may  our  souls  meet  the  Saint’s  soul,  dearest, 

On  the  hills  of  the  upper  air  ! 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


417 


TO  MARY  IN  IRELAND. 

WRITTEN  ON  MAY  EV1. 

l. 

Mary,  Mary,  are  you  straying 
In  our  olden  haunts  alone  ? 

In  the  meadows  are  you  Maying, 

Where  the  other  flowers  have  blown  ? 

In  the  green  lanes  are  you  roaming, 
Where  we  chanted  young  Love’s  hymn  / 

Do  you  think  you  see  me  coming, 
Through  the  evening  shadows  dim  ? 

n. 

Do  you  think  I’m  happy,  dearest, 

In  the  wondrous  sights  I see  ? 

Ah ! when  my  new  friends  are  nearest, 
Happiness  is.  far  from  me ! 

Two  things  have  I loved  supremely, — 
Two  things  that  I cannot  see — 

Mother  Ireland,  fallen  but  queenly, 
Mother  Ireland,  Love,  and  thee. 

m. 

Oh,  for  one  June  day  together, 

By  the  Ovoca’s  auburn  tide ! 

Oh,  to  walk  the  empurpled  heather, 
Mantling  royal  Lugduff ’s  side ! 

On  the  mountain,  still  to  heaven, 

Like  its  hermit,  I could  pray,126 

All  my  days — if  God  had  given 
To  my  heart  but  one  such  day. 


418 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS . 


TV. 

in  the  moonlight,  groves  that  we  know, 
Silent  stand  as  sheeted  ghosts; 
Where  the  fairies  dance  till  cockcrow, 
Marshall’d  in  unbanished  hosts. 

If  you  look  forth  from  your  lattice, 

At  the  star  that  squires  the  moon, 
Know  the  same  star  looketh  at  us, 

And  shall  see  our  union  soon. 


v. 

Seas  and  storms  may  be  between  us — 
Anger  and  neglect  are  not — 

Time,  too,  rolls  his  tide  between  us, 

Vainly  to  the  unforgot. 

For  your  dwelling  I have  builded 
Here,  a home,  my  heart’s  delight; 

Hope  the  eaves  and  panes  hath  gilded, 
Freedom  makes  the  landscape  bright. 

VI. 

Groves  as  stately  fill  the  far-sight, 

Walks  as  silent  tempt  the  feet; 

Steering  by  the  polar  star-light, 

Night  winds  bear  the  fairy  fleet; 

Fraught  with  dews,  and  sweets,  and  voices, 
Bound  for  every  open  heart; 

Mine,  my  love,  almost  rejoices — 

Would,  if  you  were  here  for  part. 

VII. 

Courage,  never  fear  the  ocean, 

Summer  winds  and  summer  skies, 

Without  clouds  or  wild  commotion, 

Call  you  to  me,  western  wise; 


POEMS  OF  TEE  AFFECTIONS.  4pj 

Love  shall  be  your  pilot,  dearest, 

Over  the  charmed  summer  sea; 

Love,  who  a new  home  hath  builded, 

In  the  West,  for  you  and  me. 


A DEATH-SONQ. 

I. 

Take  me  to  your  arms,  beloved, 

Before  that  I am  dead — 

Let  me  feel  your  warm  hand  at  my  heart, 
Your  breast  beneath  my  head; 

For  my  very  soul  is  gasping, 

And  it  fain  would  be  away 
In  the  far  land,  where  the  spirits  dwell, 
For  ever  and  for  aye. 


n. 

The  cold  tear  on  my  chilly  cheek 
For  this  world  is  not  shed — 

But,  to  think  how  lonely  you  will  be 
When  I,  beloved,  am  dead. 

I’m  thinking  of  you,  sad  and  lone, 

Here  staying  joylessly, 

When  I am  cold  as  the  white  gravestone, 
Beneath  the  dripping  tree. 

in. 

I little  dream’d,  beloved, 

When  you  woo’d  me  long  ago 
In  our  own  green  land,  I’d  leave  you 
So  soon,  and  in  such  woe, 


420 Mum  w ATmmm 

But,  ah ! my  heart’s  delight,  we’ll  meet 
Beneath  the  immortal  hills, 

Where  falleth  never  snow  or  sleet, 

Where  entereth  not  earth’s  ills. 

IV. 

Oh ! hasten,  darling,  hasten. 

To  follow  after  me, 

For  in  heaven  I will  be  desolate, 

Until  rejoin’d  by  thee. 

Now,  take  me  to  your  arms,  love, 

Before  that  I am  dead — 

Let  me  feel  your  warm  hand  at  my  heart, 
And  your  breast  beneath  my  head; 

For  my  very  soul  is  gasping, 

And  fain  would  be  away 
In  the  far  land,  where  the  spirits  dwell. 
For  ever  and  for  aye. 


LIVE  FOR  LO  VE. 

I. 

I live  not  alone  for  living — 

I woo  not  glory’s  prize, 

The  world,  I hold,  worth  giving 
For  one  beam  from  beauty’s  eyes; 

I never  seek  to  clamber 
My  brother  men  above — 

•I  pay  court  in  a lady’s  chamber, 

And  reign  in  a lady’s  love. 

n. 

Of  gold  I am  not  chary, 

In  death’s  dawn  it  melts  away. 

Like  gifts  of  the  night-trapp’d  fairy, ^ 
In  the  gray,  grim  break  of  day ; 


POEMS  OE  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


421 


For  power — all  power  is  hollow — 
And  like  to  it  are  they, 

Who,  the  bloodless  phantom  follow, 
Turning  from  love  away. 

in. 

Oh,  call  it  not  “ idle  passion,” 

Or,  prostrate  poet’s  dream — 

Since  Adam ’t  has  been  the  fashion, 
Since  Ossian ’t  has  been  the  theme  \ 
In  this  dear  girl  before  me 
The  sum  of  my  hope  is  set — 

The  Past  and  the  Present  o’er  me, 
Foes,  future,  and  all,  I forget. 

IY. 

Let  others  rule  in  the  Senate, 

Let  others  lead  in  war; 

And  if  they  find  pleasure  in  it, 

May  it  stand  to  them  like  a star; 
But  give  me — a simple  dwelling, 

Away  from  the  crowd  removed— 

A bower  by  the  waters  welling, 

And  you  by  my  side,  beloved. 

AS 

THE  EXILE. 

i. 

No  more  to  bless  my  soul,  shall  rise 
The  joys  of  by -gone  years; 

No  more  my  unstrung  harp  replies 
To  wordly  hopes  or  fears. 

In  mirkest  night  is  lost  the  star, 

Whose  light  my  pathway  led; 

I am  lonely,  very  lonely, 

Oh  . would  that  I were  dead. 


J 

422  POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

II. 

No  more  along  thy  banks,  sweet  Foyle, 

My  evening  path  shall  lie; 

No  more  my  Mary’s  love-lit  face 
Shall  meet  my  longing  eye. 

All  that  could  cheer  my  wayward  soul, 
Like  sunset  tints  hath  fled; 

I am  lonely,  very  lonely, 

Oh  ! would  that  I were  dead, 

in. 

Ah ! when  the  pleasant  spring  time  came, 
Like  bride  bedeck’d  with  flowers, 

How  blest,  adown  the  hawthorn  lane, 

We  pass’d  the  twilight  hours. 

My  Mary,  Heaven  had  call’d  you  then, 

Its  light  was  round  you  shed; 

I am  lonely,  very  lonely, 

Oh ! would  that  I were  dead. 

IV. 

Even  then  your  words  of  love  would  blend 
With  hopes  of  freedom’s  day, 

And  whisper  thus — “ No  woman’s  love 
In  slavish  hearts  should  stay.” 

The  while,  the  wild  rose  in  your  hair, 
Scarce  match’d  your  cheek’s  pure  red ; 

I am  lonely,  very  lonely, 

Oh  ! would  that  I were  dead. 

V. 

Oh ! that  my  stubborn  heart  should  live 
That  dreadful  moment  through, 

When  those  bleak  robes  I raised,  to  give 
One  parting  kiss  to  vou: 

POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


423 


When  there  lay  all  my  earthly  joy, 
Array’d  for  death’s  cold  bed; 

I am  lonely,  very  lonely, 

Oh ! would  that  I were  dead. 


Yes,  Mary  dear,  thy  earnest  wish 
Is  all  that  wakes  me  now: 

To  haste  the  day,  when  slavery’s  blush 
Shall  flee  our  country’s  brow; 

To  toil,  to  strive,  till  free  she’ll  rise, 
Then  lay  with  thee  my  head; 

For  I’m  lonely,  very  lonely, 

And  longing  to  be  dead. 


TO  MARY'S  ANGEL. 

A VALENTINE. 

I. 

Ye  angels,  to  whom  space  is  not, 

Who  span  the  earth  like  light, 

Keep  watch  and  ward  around  the  spot 
Where  dwells  my  heart’s  delight; 

And  when  my  true  love  walks  abroad. 
Spread  roses  in  her  path, 

And  let  the  winds,  round  her  abode, 
Subdue  their  wail  and  wrath. 

n. 

Ye  angels,  ye  were  made  to  be 
To  one  another  kind ; 

And  she  to  whom  I charge  ye,  see, 
Your  sister  i.s  in  mind: 


424 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


As  gentle  as  soft  strains,  as  wild 
As  zephyrs  in  their  youth, 

As  artless  as  a country  child, 

The  very  word  of  truth. 

m. 

Ye  guard  the  sailor  far  at  sea, 

The  hermit  in  his  cell ; 

Yet  they  are  less  alone  than  she-- 
Good  angels,  watch  her  well ! 

He  who  should  be  her  guard  and  guide, 
Alas  ! is  far  away; 

Ye  spirits,  leave  not  Mary’s  side, 

I charge  ye,  night  or  day  ! 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  A LADY’S  ALBUM. 

TO  MARY  D.* 

My  gentle  friend,  your  father’s  guest 
Might  not  refuse  your  high  behest, 

Even  though  it  were  a sterner  task 
Your  loveliness  was  pleased  to  ask. 

If  one  who  once  was  “reverend  ” 128  may 
For  his  own  special  favorites  pray, 

Then  heaven  will  hoard  its  blessings  up 
To  pour  them  in  your  path  and  cup. 

Daily  and  hourly  on  your  head 
The  blessings  of  both  worlds  be  shed  ! 

May  sorrow  have  no  power  to  stay 
Beneath  your  roof  a second  day ! 

* The  accomplished  daughter  of  an  Irish  lawyer  of  Philadelphia,  now  the  esti- 
mable wife  of  a prominent  New  York  physician. 

f 


POEMS  OF  TEE  AFFECTIONS. 


425 


May  every  weed,  and  woe,  and  thorn 
Out  of  your  destined  path  be  torn  ! 

May  all  for  whose  delight  you  live 
Pay  back  the  bliss  you’re  born  to  give  ! 

But  if,  like  all  earth’s  other  flowers, 

You,  too,  shall  have  your  chilly  hours, 

May  God  sow  stars  thick  through  your  night. 
And  make  your  morrow  doubly  bright ! 

May  Love  still  wait,  a faithful  page, 

Upon  your  grace  from  youth  to  age — 

And  may  you  crown  the  gifts  of  Love 
With  peace  that  cometh  from  above ! 

Oh ! how  I wish  that  I were  old, 

That  seventy  years  of  beads  I’d  told — 

That  all  my  sins  were  quite  forgiven, 

So  that  I might  be  heard  in  heaven — 

Ah ! then  these  blessings,  one  by  one, 

Should  on  your  path  of  life  be  strown, 

And  neither  earth  nor  fiends  should  rend 
God’s  favors  from  you,  gentle  friend ! 
Philadelphia,  Nov.  26,  1848. 


/ LOVE  THEE , MART! 
INTRODUCED  IN  AN  IRISH  LEGEND — THE  EVIL  GUEST. 
I. 

I may  reveal  it  to  the  night, 

Where  lurks  around  no  tattling  fairy, 

With  only  stars  and  streams  in  sight — 

I love,  I love  thee,  Mary ! 


426 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


n. 

Your  smile  to  me  is  like  the  dawn 
New  breaking  on  the  trav’ller  weary; 

My  heart  is,  bird-like,  to  it  drawn — 

I love,  I love  thee,  Mary ! 

HI. 

Your  voice  is  like  the  August  wind, 

That  of  rich  perfume  is  not  chary, 

But  leaves  its  sweetness  long  behind, 

As  thou  dost,  lovely  Mary ! 

IV. 

Your  step  is  like  the  sweet,  sweet  spring 
That  treads  the  flowers  with  feet  so  airy, 

And  makes  its  green  enchanted  ring, 

As  thou  dost,  where  thou  comest,  Mary ! 


MEMENTO  MORI. 

i. 

My  darling,  in  the  land  of  dreams,  of  wonder  and  delight, 

I see  you  and  sit  by  you,  and  woo  you  all  the  night, 

Under  trees  that  glow  like  diamonds  upon  my  aching  sight, 
You  are  walking  by  my  side  in  your  wedding  garments 
white. 


n. 

My  darling,  my  Mary,  through  the  long  Summer’s  day, 
Though  many  are  the  scenes  I pass  and  devious  be  my  way, 
You  follow  me  forever,  and  I cannot  turn  away — 

Oh ! who  could  turn  from  wife  like  mine  in  her  wedding 
garments  gay  ? 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


427 


m. 

My  darling  girl,  it  is  a year — a year  and  little  more — 

Sin.ce  I took  you  in  my  arms  from  your  happy  mother’s  door, 
f thought  I loved  you  then — that  I knew  you  long  before, 
But  I know  you  ten  times  better  now,  and  love  you  ten  times 
more. 

IV. 

Yet  ’tis  not  what  the  world  calls  “ love,”  that  for  my  love  I 
feel, 

’Tis  pure  as  martyr’s  memory,  and  warm  as  convert’s  zeal, 
’Tis  a love  that  cannot  be  dispell’d  by  time,  or  chance,  or 
steel, 

’Tis  eternal  as  my  soul,  and  precious  as  its  weak 

v. 

Dear  Mary,  do  not  grieve  if  I am  long  away, 

There  is  an  added  twilight  hour  joined  to  my  life’s  long  day, — 
To  rest  with  you  in  peace,  may  God  grant  me,  I pray, 

And  to  sleep  beside  you,  darling,  until  the  Judgment-day! 

MEMORIES. 

I left  two  loves  on  a distant  strand, 

One  young,  and  fond,  and  fair,  and  bland; 

One  fair,  and  old,  and  sadly  grand — 

My  wedded  wife  and  my  native  land. 


One  tarrieth  sad  and  seriously 
Beneath  the  roof  that  mine  should  be; 
One  sitteth  sibyl-like  by  the  sea, 
Chanting  a grave  song  mournfully. 

A little  life  I have  not  seen 
Lies  by  the  heart  that  mine  hath  been; 
A cypress  wreath  darkles  now,  I ween, 
Upon  the  brow  of  mv  love  in  green. 


t 


428 


POEMS  OF  T11E  AFfECTIOKS. 


The  mother  and  wife  shall  pass  away, 

Her  hands  be  dust,  her  lips  be  clay; 

But  my  other  love  on  earth  shall  stay, 

And  live  in  the  life  of  a better  day. 

Ere  we  were  born  my  first  love  was, 

My  sires  were  heirs  to  her  holy  ca7ise; 

And  she  yet  shall  sit  in  the  world’s  applause, 
A mother  of  men  and  blessed  laws. 

I hope  and  strive  the -while  I sigh, 

For  I know  my  first  love  cannot  die; 

From  the  chain  of  woes  that  loom  so  high 
Her  reign  shall  reach  to  eternity. 


HOME  THOUGHTS. 

If  will  h*ad  wings,  how  fast  I’d  flee 

To  the  home  of  my  heart  o’er  the  seething  sea ! 

If  wishes  were  power,  if  words  were  spells, 

I’d  be  this  hour  where  my  own  love  dwells. 

My  own  love  dwells  in  the  storied  land, 

Where  the  holy  wells  sleep  in  yellow  sand; 

And  the  emerald  lustre  of  Paradise  beams 
Over  homes  that  cluster  round  singing  streams. 

I,  sighing,  alas ! exist  alone — 

My  youth  is  as  grass  on  an  unsunn’d  stone, 
Bright  to  the  eye,  but  unfelt  below — 

As  sunbeams  that  he  over  Arctic  snow. 

My  heart  is  a lamp  that  love  must  relight, 

Or  the  world’s  fire-damp  will  quench  it  quite; 
In  the  breast  of  my  dear,  my  life-tide  springs — 
Oh  ! I’d  tarry  none  here,  if  will  had  wings. 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


429 


m 

AN  INVITATION  TO  THE  COUNTRY . 


I. 

Oh  ! come  to  the  flower-fields,  Mary, 
Where  the  trees  and  grass  are  green. 
And  the  trace  of  Spring — the  fairy  ! — 
Is  in  emerald  circles  seen. 

For  the  stony-streeted  city 
Is  not  fit  for  your  tiny  feet; 

Oh  1 come,  in  love,  or  in  pity, 

And  visit  my  calm  retreat. 


n. 

Was  never  so  green  a glade 
For  human  heart’s  desire — 

Was  never  so  sweet  a shade, 

Since  the  fall,  and  the  sword  of  fire. 
The  birds,  of  all  plumage,  here 
Are  singing  their  lovingest  song — 

Oh  ! that  she  stood  list’ning  near 
For  whom  my  lone  heart  longs ! 

in. 

Fair  Spring  is  the  fond  Earth’s  bride, 
That  cometh  all  wreath’d  in  flowers; 
And'-he  laughs  by  his  lady’s  side, 

And  leads  her  through  endless  bowers. 
My  lady’s  the  Spring  to  me, 

And  her  absence  wintereth  all — 

For  others  the  hours  may  flee, 

On  me  like  a mist  they  fall. 

i — ' 


JyO  poems  of  the  affJSvi'IONB. 

IV. 

Oh ! come  to  the  flower-fields,  Mary, 
Where  the  trees  and  grass  are  green. 
And  the  trace  of  Spring — the  fairy  1 — 

Is  in  emerald  circles  seen. 

For  the  stony-streeted  city 
Is  not  fit  for  your  tiny  feet ; 

Oh ! come,  in  love,  or  in  pity. 

And  visit  my  calm  retreat  I 

THE  DEATH-BED. 

I. 

Up  amid  the  Ulster  mountains, 

Oh,  my  brother  ! 

Where  the  heath-bells  fringe  the  fountain*, 
Oh,  my  brother ! 

Like  a light  through  darkness  beaming, 
Like  a well,  in  deserts  streaming — 

Like  relief  in  dismal  dreaming, 

I beheld  her,  oh,  my  brother  ! 

n. 

Hair  like  midnight,  eyes  like  morning, 

Oh,  my  brother ! 

Breaking  on  me  without  warning, 

Oh,  my  brother ! 

Shooting  forth  fire  so  resistless, 

That  my  heart  is  low  and  listless, 

And  my  eyes  of  Earth  are  wistless, 

Oh,  my  brother! 



POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  43] 

III. 

Daily,  nightly,  I’ve  been  pining, 

Oh,  my  brother ! 

For  those  eyes  like  morning  shining, 

Oh,  my  brother ! 

And  that  voice  ! like  music  sighing 
O’er  the  beds  of  minstrels  dying, 

’Twas  a voice  there  is  no  flying, 

Oh,  my  brother ! 


IV. 

Say  not,  hope — oh ! rather  listen, 

Oh,  my  brother ! 

When  the  evening  dew-drops  glisten, 

Oh,  my  brother ! 

On  the  grass  above  me  growing, 

Strew  my  grave  with  blossoms  blowing, 

Where  that  haunted  fount  is  flowing, 

Oh,  my  brother  1 

v. 

Where  her  feet  did  print  the  heather, 

Oh,  my  brother ! 

Grace  and  goodness  grow  together, 

Oh,  my  brother ! 

Even  yon  wither’d  wreath  doth  move  me, 

Seems  to  say,  she  might  have  loved  me — 

Strew  no  other  flowers  above  me, 

Oh,  my  brother  I 


t 


1 


432 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


MEMENTO  MORI. 

[To  the  memory  of  Nicholas  S.  Donnelly,  of  New  York,  who  died  of  cholera 
when  on  a visit  at  St.  Louis,  Mo.,  May  18,  1849.] 

I. 

He  sought  the  South  in  his  early  prime, 

Ere  half  the  worth  of  his  heart  was  known, 

While  yet  we  thought — oh,  how  many  a time  ! — 

By  the  light  of  his  life  to  guide  our  own. 

n. 

He  went  where  “ the  Father  of  Waters  ” rolls 
His  united  waves  to  the  gulf  of  the  sea — 

Where  the  Pestilent  Spirit  was  showering  souls 
Into  the  lap  of  Eternity. 

in. 

Like  a mower,  it  swept  the  tropical  South 
Of  mead,  and  flower,  and  fruit,  and  thorn; 

The  vested  priest,  with  the  prayer  in  his  mouth, 

It  took,  and  the  infant  newly  born; 

IV. 

The  bride  at  the  altar  it  breathed  upon, 

And  the  white  flowers  fell  from  her  clammy  brow; 
And  the  hand  the  ring  had  been  just  placed  on, 
Blacken’d,  and  fell  like  a blasted  bough. 

v. 

But  of  all  the  pestilence  gather’d  in, 

The  noblest  heart  and  truest  hand, 

And  the  soul  most  free  from  stain  of  sin, 

Was  thine,  young  guest  of  the  southern  land ! 

J.  r — — 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


433 


In  him  the  fullness  of  manly  sense, 

With  the  Christian’s  zeal,  were  finely  blent; 
While  a tender,  child-like  innocence 

The  charm  of  love  to  his  friendship  lent. 

VII. 

And  he  is  dead,  and  pass’d  away, 

And  we  have  bow’d  to  the  chast’ning  rod; 
In  holy  earth  we  have  placed  his  clay; 

His  soul  rests  on  the  breast  of  God. 

VIII. 

Yet  still  sometimes  we  think  we  hear 
His  quick,  firm  step,  and  laughter  shrill ; 

So  fancy  cheats  the  accustom’d  ear, 

While  the  heart  is  bent  to  the  Maker’s  wilL 

IX. 

Rest,  brother,  rest  in  your  early  grave; 

Rest,  dutiful  son,  our  dearest,  best — 

In  vain  have  we  pray’d  your  life  to  save, 

But  not  in  vain  do  we  pray  for  your  rest ! 


IN  ME  MORI  AM 

ro  THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  LATE  LAMENTED  RISHOI  O’REILLY.1* 
WRITTEN  FOR  THE  EXHIBITION  OF  THE  NEW  HAV^N  CATHOLIC  SCHOOLS. 

I. 

Shall  the  soldier  who  marches  to  battle  require, 

From  the  chief,  his  own  time  to  advance  and  retire  ? 
The  choice  of  the  foe,  or  the  choice  of  the  field, 

Or  the  spot  where  at  last  his  life’s  blood  he  may  yield? 


434 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


f 


Then,  how  weak  would  his  trust  be,  how  faint  his  belief, 
Who  could  barter  for  favors  with  Christ  for  his  chief  ? 
How  unworthy  to  follow  our  Lord  would  he  be 
Who  could  fly  from  the  tempest,  or  shrink  from  the  sea ! 

n. 

Oh ! not  such  was  his  hope,  as  we  saw  him  depart 
On  the  work  of  his  Master — not  such  was  his  heart — 
His  spirit  was  calm  as  the  blue  sky  above — 

For  there  dwelt  the  Lord  of  his  life  and  his  love; 

No  terrors  for  him  whisper’d  over  the  wave, 

For  he  knew  that  the  Master  was  mighty  to  save; 

The  ocean  to  him  was  secure  as  the  land, 

Since  all  things  obey  the  Creator’s  command. 

m. 

How  oft  in  the  eve,  o’er  the  sky-pointing  spar, 

His  eye  must  have  turn’d  to  the  luminous  star; 

“ ’Tis  the  star  of  the  sea !”  he  would  say,  as  he  pray’d 
To  Mary  our  Mother  for  comfort  and  aid. 

In  the  last  fatal  hour,  when  no  succor  was  nigh, 

How  blest  was  his  lot,  with  such  helper  on  high  ! 

When  the  sordid  grew  lavish,  the  brave  pale  with  fear, 
How  happy  for  him,  our  dear  Mother  was  near  ! 

IV. 

Where  the  good  ship  hath  perish’d,  or  how  it  befell, 

No  man  that  beheld  it,  is  living  to  tell — 

All  is  darkness,  all  doubt,  on  the  sea,  on  the  shore, 

But  we  know  we  shall  see  our  dear  father  no  more. 

Ye  cold  capes  of  Greenland,  oh  ! heard  you  the  sound  ? 
The  shout  of  the  swimmer,  the  shriek  of  the  drown’d  ? 

Ye  vapors  that  curtain  Newfoundland’s  dark  coast, 

Have  you  tidings  for  us,  of  our  father  that’s  lost  ? 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  435 

V. 

We  may  question  in  vain;  still  respondeth  the  Power 
Almighty, — “ Man  knows  not  the  day  nor  the  hour, 

He  was  Mine,  and  I took  him — why  question  ye  Me, 

On  the  secrets  I hide  in  My  breast,  like  the  sea — 

Oh,  ye  children  of  faith  ! why  bewail  ye  the  just  ? 

That  I have  the  spirit,  and  you,  not  the  dust ! 

The  dust — what  avails  where  the  righteous  may  sleep, 

In  the  glades  of  the  earth,  or  the  glens  of  the  deep  ? 

VI. 

“When  the  trumpet  shall  sound,  and  the  angel  shall  call, 

To  the  place  of  My  presence,  the  centuries  all — 

The  dust  of  the  war-field  shall  rise  in  its  might, 

Embattled  to  stand  or  to  fall  in  My  sight, 

And  the  waves  shall  be  hid  by  the  hosts  they  give  forth, 
From  the  sands  of  the  South  to  the  snows  of  the  North, 
And  ye  too  shall  be  there ! — there  with  him  you  deplore, 
To  be  Mine,  if  ye  will  it,  when  Time  is  no  more  !” 


CEAD  MILLE  FAIL  THE,  O’MEAGHER l 
L 

As  from  dawn  in  the  morning, 

As  relief  comes  through  tears, 

Beyond  hope,  beyond  warning 
Our  lost  star  appears. 

Lo  ! where  it  shines  out, 

Our  long-loved,  and  wept  star, 

Hark ! hark  to  the  shout — 

Cead  mille  failthe , O’ Meagher  !* 


t 


* Pronounced — O’Mar. 


436 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS - 


IL 

In  the  melee  of  duty 

Your  young  light  was  lost, 

To  the  sad  eyes  of  beauty 
What  vigils  you  cost ! 

On  the  bronze  cheeks  of  men, 
Where  each  tear  leaves  a scar, 
There  was  trace  of  you  then — 
Gead  mille  failthe,  O' Meagher  ! 

ni. 

The  fond  spell  is  broken, 

The  bonds  are  all  broke, 

As  of  old,  God  hath  spoken, 

You  walk’d  from  the  yoke  ! 
May  the  guidance  that  passeth 
All  eloquence  far. 

Be  thine  through  the  future, 

Gead  mille  failthe , OMeagher  ! 


A MONODY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  GERALD  GRIFFIN \ 
Author  of  “ The  Collegians,”  “ Gysippus,”  etc.  Died  at  Cork,  June  12, 1840 

When  night  surrounds  the  sun,  and  the  day  dies, 
Leaving  to  darkness  for  its  hour  the  skies, 

Nought  has  the  heart  of  man  thence  to  deplore — 

The  day  lived  long,  was  fruitful,  is  no  more ; 

But  when  the  hurricane  at  noon  o’erspreads 
The  orb  divine,  which  life  and  gladness  sheds, 

Or  some  disorder’d  planet  rolls  between 
The  sun  and  earth,  darkling  the  verdant  green, 
Eclipsing  ocean,  shadowing  like  a pall 
The  busy  town, — men,  discontented  all, 

T 


1 


POEMS  OF  TEE  AFFECTIONS.  437 

By  sea  and  land,  anxiously  pause  and  pray 
For  the  returning  giver  of  the  day — 

So  have  bright  spirits  been  eclipsed  and  lost, 

Forever  dark,  if  by  Death’s  shadow  cross’d. 

In  Munster’s  beauteous  city  died  a man 
As  ’twere  but  yesterday,  whose  course  began 
In  clouded  and  in  cheerless  morning  guise — 

Had  climb’d  the  summit  of  his  native  skies, 

And,  as  he  rose,  brighter  and  fairer  grew, 

Beneath  his  influence,  every  scene  he  knew. 

His  country  hail’d  him  as  a Saviour,  given 
To  chronicle  past  times;  when  ’mid  the  heaven 
Of  expectation  and  achievement,  lo  ! 

A monastery’s  gate, — therein  the  Bard  doth  go, 

And  sees  the  children  of  the  poor  around 
Feed  on  the  knowledge  elsewhere  yet  unfound. 

The  Poet  then,  his  former  tasks  foreswore, 

Yowing  himself  to  charity  evermore, — 

Folded  his  wings  of  light — cast  his  fresh  bays  aside — 
His  friends  beloved  abjured,  abjured  his  pride, 

There  lived  and  labor’d,  and  there  early  died. 

Short  was  his  day  of  labor,  but  its  morn 
Prolific  was  of  beauty;  thoughts  were  born 
In  his  heart’s  secret  spots,  which  grew,  attended 
By  a fine  sense — instinct  and  reason  blended — 

Till,  like  a spring,  they  spread  his  haunts  with  glory, 
O’er-arch’d  their  streams,  upraised  their  hills  in  story, 
Fixed  the  broad  Shannon  in  its  course  forever, 

And  bade  it  flow  for  aye,  a genius-haunted  river. 

Ye  men  of  Munster,  guard  his  sleep  serene ! 

Spirits  of  such  bright  order  are  not  seen 

1 — 


438  POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

But  once  in  generations.  He  was  an  echo,  dwelling 
Amid  your  mountains,  all  their  secrets  telling, 

Their  mem’ries,  their  traditions,  and  their  wrongs, 
The  story  of  their  sins — the  music  of  their  songs, 
Their  tempests,  and  their  terrors,  and  the  forms 
They  bring  forth,  impregnated  by  the  storms. 

He  knew  the  voices  of  your  rivers,  knew 
Every  deep  chasm  they  leap  or  murmur  through, — 
Blindfold,  at  midnight,  by  their  sounds  could  tell 
Their  names  and  their  descent  o’er  cliff  and  dell. 

Oh ! men  of  Munster,  since  the  ancient  time, 

Ye  have  not  met  such  loss  as  in  this  monk  sublime ! 

The  second  summer’s  grass  was  on  his  grave, 

When  to  his  memory  Melpomene  gave 
A laurel  wreath  wove  from  the  self-same  tree 
That  shades  Boccaccio’s  dust  perennially ; 

Fair  were  the  smiles  her  mournful  glances  met 
In  woman’s  lovely  eyes,  with  heart’s-dew  wet, 

And  many  voices  loudly  cried,  “ Well  done !” 

As  the  sad  goddess  crown’d  her  lifeless  son. 

Oh,  ever  thus:  Death  strikes  the  gifted,  then 
Come  the  worms — inquests — and  the  award  of  men ! 


Low  in  your  grave,  young  Gerald  Griffin,  sleep; 

You  never  look’d  on  him  who  now  doth  weep 
Above  your  resting-place — you  never  heard 
The  voice  that  oft  has  echo’d  every  word 
Dropp’d  from  your  pen  of  light — sleep  on,  sleep  on — 
I would  I knew  you,  yet  not  now  you  are  gone ! 

Written  during  the  Author’s  visit  to  Ireland,  in  March,  1865 


« 

+• 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


439 


CONSOL  A riON. 


I. 


Men  seek  for  treasure  in  the  earth; 

Where  I have  buried  mine, 

There  never  mortal  eye  shall  pierce, 
Nor  star  nor  lamp  shall  shine  ! 

We  know,  my  love,  oh ! well  we  know, 
The  secret  treasure-spot, 

Yet  must  our  tears  forever  fall, 
Because  that  they  are  not. 


How  gladly  would  we  give  to  light 
The  ivory  forehead  fair — 

The  eye  of  heavenly-beaming  blue, 

The  clust’ring  chestnut  hair — 

Yet  look  around  this  mournful  scene 
Of  daily  earthly  life, 

And  could  you  wish  them  back  to  share 
Its  sorrow  and  its  strife  ? 


If  blessed  angels  stray  to  earth, 


They  needs  must  back  return  again 
Unto  their  source  divine: 

All  life  obeys  the  unchanging  law 
Of  Him  who  took  and  gave, 

We  count  a glorious  saint  in  heaven 
For  each  child  in  the  grave. 


ii. 


iii. 


And  seek  in  vain  a shrine, 


440 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


i 


IV. 

Look  up,  my  love,  look  up,  afar, 

And  dry  each  bitter  ^ear, 

Behold,  three  white-robed  innocents 
At  heaven’s  high  gate  appear ! 

For  you  and  me  and  those  we  love, 
They  smilingly  await — 

God  grant  we  may  be  fit  to  join 
Those  Angels  of  the  Gate. 


MAE  Y’S  HEART. 

I. 

I know  one  spot  where  springs  a tide 
Of  feeling  pure  as  ever  ran, 

The  path  of  destiny  beside, 

To  bless  and  soothe  the  heart  of  man. 
By  night  and  noon,  be’t  dark  or  bright, 
That  fountain  plays  its  blessed  part; 
And  heaven  looks  happy  at  the  sight 
Of  Mary’s  heart ! of  Mary’s  heart ! 


ii. 

There’s  wealth,  they  say,  in  foreign  climes, 
And  fame  for  those  who  dare  aspire, 
And  who  that  does  not  sigh  betimes 
For  something  better,  nobler,  higher  ? 
But  here  is  all — a golden  mine, 

A sea  unsail’d,  a tempting  chart; 

These,  all  these  may  be,  nay,  are  mine — 
The  wide,  warm  world  of  Mary’s  heart ! 


POEMS  or  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


441 


TIL 

Blow  as  ye  will,  ye  winds  of  fate, 
And  let  life’s  trials  blackly  lower; 

I know  the  garden  and  the  gate, 

Ye  cannot  strip  my  roseate  bower. 
That  safe  retreat  I still  can  keep, 
Despite  of  envy’s  venom’d  dart ; 
Despite  of  all  life’s  storms,  can  sleep 
Securely  lodged  in  Mary’s  heart ! 


IN  ME  M 0 R I AM. 

KICHAKD  DALTON  WILLIAMS. 

Died  at  Thibodeaux,  La.,  July  5,  1862,  aged  40. 

I. 

The  early  mower,  heart-deep  in  the  corn, 

Falls  suddenly,  to  rise  on  earth  no  more — 

The  lark  he  startled  carols  to  the  morn, 

The  field  flowers  blossom  brightly  as  before — • • 
Gay  laughs  the  milkmaid  to  the  shouting  swain, 
Who  calls  the  dead  afar,  but  calls  in  vain. 

ii. 

Thus  in  the  world’s  wide  harvest-field  doth  life, 
Unconscious  of  the  stricken  heart,  rejoice — 
Thus  through  the  city’s  thousand  tones  of  strife 
The  true  friend  misses  but  the  single  voice — 
Thus,  while  the  tale  of  death  fills  every  mouth, 
For  us  there  is  but  one,  fallen  in  the  South  ! 

in. 

One  that  amid  far  other  scenes  and  years 
Leal  mem’ry  still  recalls  full  to  our  view, 

Ere  life  as  yet  had  reached  the  time  of  tears 
When  many  hopes  were  garner’d  in  a few — 


442 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS 


Blithe  was  his  jest  in  those  fraternal  days, 
Before  we  reach’d  the  parting  of  the  ways. 


IV. 

They  were  a band  of  brethren,  richly  graced 
With  all  that  most  exalts  the  sons  of  men — 

Youth,  courage,  honor,  genius,  wit,  well-placed — 
When  shall  we  see  their  parallels  again  ? 

The  very  flower  and  fruitage  of  their  age, 

Destined  for  duty’s  cross  or  glory’s  page. 

v 

And  he,  our  latest  losf  among  them  all, 

No  rival  had  fo>*  strangely-blended  powers — 

All  shapes  of  beauty  waited  at  his  call ; 

Soft  Pity  wept  o’er  Misery  in  showers, 

Or  honest  Laughter,  leaping  from  the  heart, 

Peal’d  her  wild  note  beyond  the  reach  of  Art. 

VI. 

Out  of  that  nature,  mingled  to  the  sun, 

Sprang  fount  and  flower,  the  saving  and  the  sweet ; 
The  gleesome  children  to  his  knee  would  run, 

The  helpless  brute  would  twine  about  his  feet 
For  he  was  nature’s  heir,  and  all  her  host 
Knew  their  liege  lord  in  him — our  latest  lost ! 


VH. 

Meekly  o’er  all,  the  rare  and  priceless  crown 
Of  gentle,  silent  Pity  he  still  wore — 

Like  some  fair  chapel  in  the  midmost  town, 
His  busy  heart  was  wholly  at  the  core  ; 

Deep  there  his  virtues  lay — no  eye  could  trace 
The  Pharisee’s  prospectus  in  his  face. 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


443 


VIII. 

Sleep  well,  O Bard ! too  early  from  the  field 
Of  labor  and  of  honor  call’d  away  ; 

Sleep,  like  a hero,  on  your  own  good  shield, 

Beneath  the  Shamrock,*  wreath’d  about  the  bay. 
Not  doubtful  is  thy  place  among  the  host 
Whom  fame  and  Erin  love  and  mourn  the  most. 


IX. 

While  leap  on  high,  Ben  Heder,  the  wild  waves  ; 

While  sweep  the  winds  through  storied  Aherlow  ; 
While  Sidney’s  victims  from  their  troubled  graves 
O’er  Mullaghmast,  at  midnight,  come  and  go  ; 
While  Mercy’s  sisters  kneel  by  Mercy’s  bed — 

Thou  art  not  dead,  0 Bard ! thou  art  not  dead ! 

x. 

War’s  ruffian  blast  for  very  shame  must  cease, 

And  Nature,  pitiful,  will  clothe  its  graves — 

And  then,  true  lover  of  God’s  blessed  peace, 

When  earth  has  swallow’d  up  her  vaunting  braves, 
Thy  gentle  star  shall  shine  along 
The  path  of  ages,  solaced  by  thy  song. 


WORDS  OF  WELCOME. 

TO  MRS.  S , ON  REVISITING  MONTREAL. 

The  leaves  of  October  are  wither’d  and  dead, 

All  our  autumn’s  brief  honors  have  faded  or  fled, 

But  this  season  the  saddest,  our  brightest  shall  be, 

For  there’s  sunshine  and  gladness  in  welcoming  thee  ! 

We  heed  not  how  darkly  the  evening  may  lower, 

Round  yon  mountain,  surcharged  with  the  tempest  or 
shower, 


* “ Shambook  v was  the  nom  de  plume  of  Williams,  in  the  Dublin  Nation. 


444 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


- 


O’er  the  light  in  our  breasts  there’s  no  shadow  of  grief, 
From  the  tree  of  our  friendship  there  falls  not  a leaf. 


Your  voice  brings  the  perfume  and  promise  of  spring, 
And  we  strive  to  forget  ’tis  a voice  on  the  wing, 

For  never  was  May-time  to  poets  more  dear, 

Than  these  days  of  October  since  you  have  been  here  ; 
If  evening  falls  swiftly  it  lengthens  the  night, 

While  with  music  and  legend  we  burnish  it  bright, 

The  sole  pang  of  sorrow  our  bosoms  can  know, 

Is  how  lately  you  came,  and  how  soon  you  must  go. 

Alas ! for  this  stern  life,  how  far  and  how  few 
Are  the  friends  we  can  honor  and  cherish  like  you  I 
Yet  that  rivers  and  realms  so  cold  and  so  wide, 

Such  friends  from  each  other  long  years  should  divide ! 
But  a truce  to  reflection,  a conge  to  care, 

This  weather  within  doors  is  joyously  fair, 

Here’s  a toast ! fill  it  up ! let  us  drink  it  like  men  : 

“ May  we  soon  see  our  dear  guest  among  us  again  ! 


Montreal,  October  25,  1861. 


TO  A FRIEND  IN  AUSTRALIA .» 

Old  friend  ! though  distant  far, 

Your  image  nightly  shines  upon  my  soul  ; 

I yearn  toward  it  as  toward  a star 

That  points  through  darkness  to  the  ancient  pole. 

Out  of  my  heart  the  longing  wishes  fly, 

As  to  some  rapt  Elias,  Enoch,  Seth  ; 

Yours  is  another  earth,  another  sky, 

And  I — I feel  that  distance  is  like  death. 

* Charles  Gavin  Duffy. 

1 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


445 


Oh  ! for  one  week  amid  the  emerald  fields, 
Where  the  Avoca  sings  the  song  of  Moore; 

Oh ! for  the  odor  the  brown  heather  yields, 

To  glad  the  pilgrim’s  heart  on  Glenmalur ! 

Yet  is  there  still  what  meeting  could  not  give, 
A joy  most  suited  of  all  joys  to  last; 

For,  ever  in  fair  memory  there  must  live 
The  bright,  unclouded  picture  of  the  past. 

Old  friend ! the  years  wear  on,  and  many  cares 
And  many  sorrows  both  of  us  have  known; 

Time  for  us  both  a quiet  couch  prepares — - 
A couch  like  Jacob’s,  pillow’d  with  a stone. 

And  oh  ! when  thus  we  sleep  may  we  behold 
The  angelic  ladder  of  the  Patriarch’s  dream; 

And  may  my  feet  upon  its  rungs  of  gold 
Yours  follow,  as  of  old,  by  hill  and  stream ! 


A DREAM  OF  YOUTH. 

I. 

When  the  summer  evening  fadeth  from  golden  into  gray, 
And  night,  dark  night,  sets  his  watch  upon  the  hill, 

A gentle  shadow  standeth  in  my  secret  path  alway, 

And  whispereth  to  my  heart  its  fond  words  still. 


4 


When  the  fleeing  of  the  shadows  foretells  the  coming  light, 
And  morn,  merry  morn,  winds  her  horn  on  the  hill, 
There  glideth  by  my  bed  the  shadow  of  the  night, 
Whispering  to  my  heart  its  fond  words  still. 


446 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


- 


III. 

And  dearer  far  to  me  is  that  shadow  and  that  dream, 

Than  all  the  grosser  joys  our  daily  life  can  give; 

’Tis  a lesson — and  a blessing,  far  more  than  it  doth  seem, — 
It  will  teach  me  how  to  die,  as  it  teaches  me  to  live. 

IV. 

’Tis  the  memory  of  my  youth,  when  my  soul  was  free  from 
stain, 

The  memory  of  days  spent  at  my  mother’s  knee; 

’Tis  the  language  of  my  youth  that  thus  speaks  to  me  again — 
Dear  dream,  do  not  desert  me;  dear  shadow,  do  not  flee 


WILLIAM  SMITH  O’BRIEN. 

I. 

Thus  we  repeat  the  wretched  past, 

Thus  press  to  give 
Our  offerings  at  the  tomb  at  last, 
Forget — forgive — 

All  that  was  warring,  erring,  lost, 

In  those  who  now 
Can  lift  no  more  among  our  host. 

Or  voice,  or  brow  ! 

ii. 

Two  nations  in  our  land  are  found: 

One  lowly  laid — 

A host,  an  audience  under  ground, 

Sons  of  the  shade; 

And  one  a noisy,  driftless  throng, 
Heroes  of  the  day — 

Who  chorus  still  the  spendthrift’s  song, 
“ Live  while  ye  may !” 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


447 


in. 

Now  with  the  dead,  the  just,  the  true, 

Let  our  thoughts  be — 

To  them  the  tribute  loug  time  due 
Give  willingly; 

And  when  ye  name  the  names  who  most 
Deserve  our  praise, 

Was  there  his  peer  in  Erin’s  host 
In  latter  days  ? 

IV. 

Behold  the  man  ! ye  knew  him  well, 

Erect,  austere — 

Whose  mind  was  as  an  hermit’s  cell, 
Whence  purpose  clear 

Sprang  headlong,  thoughtless  for  its  source, 
A self-will’d  stream, 

Embower’d  on  all  its  onward  course 
By  dream  on  dream  ! 

v. 

Pride,  cold  as  in  the  stiff-ribb’d  rock, 

Was  in  his  mould, 

And  courage,  which  withstood  the  shock 
Of  trials  manifold ; 

And  tenderness  unto  the  few  he  loved, 

His  all  in  all — 

And  fortitude  in  fiery  furnace  proved 
At  honor’s  call. 


VI. 

But  over  these — friend,  lover,  patriot,  seer, 
Let  us  proclaim, 

His  name  to  Erin  ever  shall  be  dear, 

For  this  is  fame — 


448 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Justice — o’er  all — the  saving  salt  of  earth, 

He  still  pursued — 

Justice,  the  world’s  regenerate  second  birth, 
Its  holy  rood ! 

vn. 

Sleep,  pilgrim,  sleep,  beneath  that  blessed  sign 
Whose  saving  shade 

Shadows  for  man  the  mystic  sun  divine, 

For  whom  ’twas  made; 

Sleep,  stainless  of  a Christian  land, 

Whose  arts — all  just — 

Thy  witnesses  before  the  judgment  stand, 

So  let  us  trust ! 


THE  DEAD  ANTIQUARY,  O’DONOVAN . 

Far  are  the  Gaelic  tribes,  and  wide 
Scatter’d  round  earth  on  every  side 
For  good  or  ill; 

They  aim  at  all  things,  rise  or  fall, 

Succeed  or  perish — but  through  all 
Love  Erin  still. 

Although  a righteous  Heaven  decrees 
’Twixt  us  and  Erin  stormy  seas 
And  barriers  strong, 

Of  care,  and  circumstance,  and  cost, 

Yet  count  not  all  your  absent  lost, 

Oh,  land  of  song  ! 

Above  your  roofs  no  star  can  rise 
That  does  not  lighten  in  our  eyes, 

Nor  any  set 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


449 


That  ever  shed  a cheering  beam 
On  Irish  hillside,  street,  or  stream, 

That  we  forget. 

No  artist  wins  a shining  fame, 

Lifting  aloft  his  nation’s  name 
High  over  all; 

No  soldier  falls,  no  poet  dies, 

But  underneath  all  foreign  skies 
We  mourn  his  fall ! 

And  thus  it  comes  that  even  I, 

Though  weakly  and  unworthily, 

Am  moved  by  grief 
To  join  the  melancholy  throng, 

And  chant  the  sad  entombing  song 
Above  the  chief — 

The  foremost  of  the  immortal  band 
Who  vow’d  their  lives  to  fatherland; 

Whose  works  remain 
To  attest  how  constant,  how  sublime 
The  warfare  was  they  waged  with  time; 
How  great  the  gain ! 

I would  not  do  the  dead  such  wrong; 

If  graves  could  yield  a growth  of  song 
Like  flowers  of  May, 

Then  Mangan  from  the  tomb  might  raise 
One  of  his  old  resurgent  lays — 

But,  well-a-day, 

He,  close  beside  his  early  friend, 

By  the  stark  shepherd  safely  penn’d, 
Sleeps  out  the  night; 


T 


450 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


So  his  wierd  numbers  never  more 
The  sorrow  of  the  isle  shall  pour 
In  tones  of  might ! 

Tho’  haply  still  by  Lifley’s  side 
That  mighty  master  must  abide 
Who  voiced  our  grief 
O’er  Davis  lost;*  and  him  who  gave 
His  free  frank  tribute  at  the  grave 
Of  Erin’s  chief  ;f 

Yet  must  it  not  be  said  that  we 
Failed  in  the  rites  of  minstrelsie, 

So  dear  to  souls 

Like  his  whom  lately  death  hath  ta’en, 

Although  the  vast  Atlantic  main 
Between  us  rolls ! 

Too  few,  too  few  among  our  great, 

In  camp  or  cloister,  Church  or  State, 

Wrought  as  he  wrought; 

Too  few  of  all  the  brave  we  trace 
Among  the  champions  of  our  race. 

His  fortress  was  a nation  wreck’d, 

His  foes  were  falsehood,  hate,  neglect, 

His  comrades  few; 

His  arsenal  was  weapon-bare, 

His  flag-staff  splinter’d  in  the  air, 

Where  nothing  flew ! 

Had  Sarsfield  on  Saint  Mary’s  Tower 
More  sense  of  weakness  or  of  power, 

More  cause  to  fear 

* Samuel  Fergnson. 

t Denis  Florence  McCarthy,  whose  poem  on  the  death  of  O'Connell  was  one 
of  the  noblest  tributes  paid  to  the  memory  of  the  great  Tribune. 


POEMS  OF  THE  ATTENTIONS. 


in 


Weak  walls,  strong  foes,  the  odds  of  fate, 
Than  had  our  friend,  more  fortunate, 

The  victor  here  ? 

Far  through  the  morning  mists  he  saw 
Up  to  what  heights  of  dizzy  awe 
His  pathway  led; 

A-bye  what  false  Calypso  caves, 

Amid  what  roar  of  angry  waves, 

His  sail  to  spread ! 

On,  on  he  press’d,  from  rise  of  sun 
Until  his  early  day  was  done, 

Strong  in  the  truth; 

As  dear  to  friends,  as  meek  with  foes 
At  evening’s  wearied  sudden  close 
As  in  his  youth. 

He  toiled  to  make  our  story  stand 
As  from  Time’s  reverent,  runic  hand 
It  came,  undeck’d 
By  fancies  false,  erect,  alone, 

The  monumental  arctic  stone 
Of  ages  wreck’d. 

Truth  was  his  solitary  test, 

His  star,  his  chart,  his  east,  his  west; 

Nor  is  there  aught 
In  text,  in  ocean,  or  in  mine, 

By  chemist,  seaman,  or  divine, 

More  fondly  sought. 

Not  even  our  loved  Apostle’s  name 
Could  stand  on  ground  of  fabled  fame 
Beyond  appeal- 


452 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


But  never  sceptic  more  sincere 
Labored  to  dissipate  the  fear 
That  good  men  feel; 

The  pious  but  unfounded  fear 
That  reason,  in  her  high  career 
Too  much  might  dare; 

Some  sacred  legend,  some  renown 
Should  overturn  or  trample  down 
Beyond  repair. 

With  gentle  hand  he  rectified 
The  errors  of  old  bardic  pride, 

And  set  aright 

The  story  of  our  devious  past, 

And  left  it,  as  it  now  must  last, 

Full  in  the  light ! 

Beneath  his  hand  we  saw  restored 
The  tributes  of  the  royal  hoard, 

The  dues  appraised 
On  every  prince,  and  how  repaid; 

The  order  kept,  the  boundaries  made. 
The  rites  obey’d.* 

All  tribes  and  customs,  in  our  view, 
He  had  the  art  to  raise  anew 
On  their  own  ground; 

But  chief,  the  long  Hy  Nial  line, 

We  saw  ascend,  prevail,  decline 
O’er  Tara’s  mound. 

The  throne  of  Cashel,  too,  he  raised— 
High  on  the  rock  its  glory  blazed, 
And,  by  its  light, 

* The  “ Book  of  Rights.’ ’ 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


453 


The  double  dynasty  we  saw 
Decreed  by  Olliol  Ollum’s  law, 

Emerge  from  night. 

Happy  the  life  our  scholar  led 
Among  the  living  and  the  dead — 

Loving — beloved — 

Mid  precious  tomes,  and  gentle  looks, 

The  best  of  men  and  best  of  books, 

He  daily  moved. 

Kings  that  were  dead  two  thousand  years, 
Cross-bearing  chiefs  and  pagan  seers, 

He  knew  them  all; 

And  bards,  whose  very  harps  were  dust, 
And  saints,  whose  souls  are  with  the  just, 
Came  at  his  call. 

For  him  the  school  refill'd  the  glen, 

The  green  rath  bore  its  fort  again. 

The  Druid  fled ; 

Saint  Kieran’s  coarb  wrought  and  wrote, 
Saint  Brendan  launch’d  his  daring  boat. 
And  westward  sped ! 

For  him  around  Iona’s  shore 
Cowl’d  monks,  like  sea-birds,  by  the  score. 
Were  on  the  wing, 

For  North  or  South,  to  take  their  way 
Where  God’s  appointed  errand  lay. 

To  clown  or  king. 

He  marshall’d  Brian  on  the  plain. 

Sail’d  in  the  galleys  of  the  Dane — 

Earl  Bichard,  too, 


454 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS . 


Fell  Norman  as  he  was,  and  fierce — 

Of  him  and  his  he  dared  rehearse 
The  story  true. 

O’er  all  low  limits  still  his  mind 
Soar’d  Catholic  and  unconfined, 

From  malice  free; 

On  Irish  soil  he  only  saw 

One  state,  one  people,  and  one  law, 

One  destiny ! 

Spirit  of  Justice ! Thou  most  dread 
Author  divine,  whose  Book  hath  said — 
The  just  man’s  seed 
Shall  never  fail  for  lack  of  bread, 

Oh,  let  the  flock  his  labor  fed, 

Thy  mercy  feed ! 

Inspire,  oh  Lord ! with  bounteous  hand, 
The  magnates  of  the  Irish  land, 

That,  being  so  moved, 

As  fathers  of  the  fatherless, 

They  shield  from  danger  and  distress 
His  well-beloved. 

And  teach  us,  Father,  who  remain 
Filial  dependents  on  that  brain 
So  deeply  wrought; 

Teach  us  to  travel  day  by  day 
By  honest  paths,  seeking  alway 
The  ends  he  sought  1 

Montreal,  January,  1862. 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


455 


t 


SURSUM  CORDA. 

[“  Those,  however,  who  are  aware  of  the  crushing  succession  of  domestic 
afflictions  and  of  bodily  infirmities  with  which  it  has  pleased  Providence  to 
visit  me  during  the  last  three  years,  will,  I am  sure,  look  with  indulgent  eyes 
on  these  defects,  as  well  as  on  those  concerning  which  1 have  already  confessed 
and  asked  pardon.”— Mr.  O' Curry's  Preface  to  his  “Lectures  on  the  MS. 
Materials  of  Ancient  Irish  History!'] 

Health  and  comfort ! may  thy  sorrow 
Pass  as  lifts  the  mournful  night, 

Bringing  in  the  calm  to-morrow, 

Thoughtful,  dutiful,  yet  bright — 

B Though  the  new-made  graves  should  thicken, 

Though  the  empty  chairs  increase — 

Still  the  wakeful  soul  must  quicken, 

Still  through  labor  seek  for  peace. 

If,  oh  friend ! in  all  our  forest, 

Healing  grew  on  herb  or  tree 
For  the  wound  that  grieves  thee  sorest, 

Surely  I would  send  it  thee ! 

But  the  healing  branch  hangs  nearer, 

By  thy  seldom-idle  hand, 

Draws  the  magic — all  the  dearer — 

From  the  core  of  fatherland. 


I 


That  which  made  thy  youthful  vision, 
That  which  made  thy  manhood’s  goal— 
Over  coldness,  toil,  derision, 

Bore  thee,  heart  and  fancy  whole; 

That  which  was  thy  first  ambition 
In  the  early,  anxious  past, 

By  the  Almighty’s  just  provision, 

Is  thy  stay  and  strength  at  last. 


456 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Turn  for  solace  to  those  pages 

Where  your  hived-up  lore  we  read. 

To  that  company  of  sages 

Who  for  you  have  lived  indeed; 

Think  of  him  who  strove  to  smother 
In  his  books  a noble’s  grief; 

Think  of  the  poor  footsore  brother 
Of  the  Masters  Four  the  chief ! 

Think  what  life  the  scald  of  Lecan 
Led,  through  evil  penal  days, 

Let  his  gentle  spirit  beckon 
Yours  to  render  greater  praise. 

Sad  must  be  your  fireside,  only 
Sadder  was  the  wayside  inn 
Where  he  perish’d,  old  and  lonely, 

By  the  Letcher  of  Dunflin  ! 

All  who  honor  Erin,  honor 
You  with  her,  beloved  friend  ! 

Blessings  we  invoke  upon  her, 

Without  limit,  without  end; 

Blessings  of  all  saints  in  glory, 

We  invoke  for  him  who  drew 
Old  Egyptian  seeds  of  story 

From  the  grave,  to  bloom  anew ! 

Sursum  Corda  ! with  the  Masters 
Whom  you  love,  your  place  must  be. 

There  no  changes,  no  disasters, 

Ever  can  imperil  you  ! 

Happy  age  ! unstain’d,  untarnish’d 
By  one  blot  of  blame  or  shame, 

Happy  age  ! protected,  garnish’d 
With  a patriot-scnoiar's  rame  * 
— 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


457 


E UG  ENE  0’ CURRY. 

We  listen  to  each  wind  that  blows 
The  white  ship  to  our  yearning  shore; 

We  tremble — as  if  secret  foes, 

i 

Or  alien  plagues,  it  wafted  o’er. 

Instinct  with  fear,  we  seize  upon 
The  record  of  the  latest  lost, 

To  find  some  friend  forever  gone, 

Some  hope  we  held  forever  cross’d. 

Oh  wretched  world  ! who  would  grow  old — 
Outlive  the  loving,  generous,  just — 

See  friendship’s  fervid  heart  all  cold, 

Laid  low  and  pulseless  in  the  dust ! 

Who  would  ordain  himself,  in  age, 

To  be  of  all  he  loved,  the  heir, — 

To  linger  on  the  starless  stage, 

With  all  life’s  company  elsewhere  ? 

Give  me  again  my  harp  of  yew, 

In  consecrated  soil  ’twas  grown — 

Shut  out  the  day-star  from  my  view, 

And  leave  me  with  the  night  alone ! 

The  children  of  this  modern  land 
May  deem  our  ancient  custom  vain; 

But  aye  responsive  to  my  hand, 

The  harp  must  pour  the  funeral  strain. 

It  was,  of  old,  a sacred  rite, 

A debt  of  honor  freely  paid 

To  champions  fallen  in  the  fight, 

And  scholars  known  in  peaceful  shade; — 


468 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Alas  ! that  rite  should  now  be  claim’d, 

O world  ! for  one  we  least  can  spare; 

Whose  name  by  us  was  never  named 
Without  its  meed  of  praise  or  prayer ! 

An  Ollamh  of  the  elect  of  old, 

Whose  chairs  were  placed  beside  the  king, 
Whose  hounds,  whose  herds,  whose  gifts  of  gold, 
The  later  bards  regretful  sing; 

Ay  ! there  was  magic  in  his  speech, 

And  in  his  wand  the  power  to  save,130 
This  sole  recorder  on  the  beach 
Of  all  we’ve  lost  beneath  the  wave. 

Who  are  his  mourners  ? by  the  hearth 
His  presence  kindled,  sad  they  sit, — 

They  dwell  throughout  the  living  earth, 

In  homes  his  presence  never  lit; 

Where’er  a Gaelic  brother  dwells, 

There  heaven  has  heard  for  him  a prayer — 
Where’er  an  Irish  maiden  tells 

Her  votive  beads,  his  soul  has  share. 

Where,  far  or  near,  or  west  or  east, 

Glistens  the  soggarth’s*  sacred  stole, 

There,  from  the  true,  unprompted  priest, 

Shall  rise  a requiem  for  his  soul. 

Such  orisons  like  clouds  shall  rise 
From  every  realm  beneath  the  sun, 

For  where  are  now  the  shores  or  skies 
The  Irish  soggarth  has  not  won  ? 

Oh  ! mortal  tears  will  dry  like  rain, 

And  mortal  sighs  pass  like  the  breeze, 


T 


And  earthly  prayers  are  often  vain, 
E'en  breathed  amid  the  Mysteries; 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS . 


1- 

459 


Happy,  alone,  we  hold  the  man 

Whose  steps  so  righteously  were  trod, 

That,  ere  the  judgment-act  began, 

Had  suppliants  in  the  Saints  of  God. 

Arise,  ye  cloud-borne  saints  of  old, 

In  number  like  the  polar  flock — 

Arise,  ye  just,  whose  tale  is  told 

On  Shannon’s  side  and  Arran’s  rock, 

In  number  like  the  waves  of  seas, 

In  glory  like  the  stars  of  night — 

Arise,  ambrosial-laden  bees 

That  banquet  through  heaven’s  fields  of  light ! 

This  mortal,  call’d  to  join  your  choir, 

Through  every  care,  and  every  grief, 

Sought,  with  an  antique  soul  of  fire, 

O’er  all,  God’s  glory,  first  and  chief. 

And  next  he  sought,  oh,  sacred  band ! 

Ye  disinherited  of  heaven, 

To  give  you  back  your  native  land, 

To  give  it  as  it  first  was  given ! 

No  more  the  widow’d  glen  repines, 

No  more  the  ruin’d  cloister  groans, 

Back  on  the  tides  have  come  the  shrines, 

Lo ! we  have  heard  the  speech  of  stones; 

In  the  mid-watch  when  darkness  reign’d, 

And  sleepers  slept,  unseen  his  toil — • 

But  heaven  kept  count  of  all  he  gain’d 
For  ye,  lords  of  the  Holy  Isle  ! 

Plead  for  him,  oh  ye  exiled  saints ! 

Ye  outcasts  of  the  iron  time  ! 

He  heard  on  earth  your  mute  complaints, 

He  heard  you  with  a zeal  sublime; 


460 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS, 


If  venial  error  still  attaints 
His  spirit  wrapt  in  penal  fire, 

Plead  for  him,  all  ye  pitying  saints, 

And  bear  him  to  yonr  blessed  choir  ! 

Let  those  who  love,  and  lose  him  most, 
In  their  great  sorrow  comfort  find ; 
Remembering  how  heaven’s  mighty  host 
Were  ever  present  to  his  mind; 
Descending  on  his  grave  at  even 
May  they  the  radiant  phalanx  see — 
Such  wondrous  sight  as  once  was  given, 
In  vision,  to  the  rapt  Culdee  !131 

May  Angus  of  the  festal  lays, 

And  Marian  of  the  Apostle’s  hill,13* 
And  Tiernan  of  the  Danish  days,183 
And  Adamnan  and  Columb-kill, 
Befriend  his  soul  in  every  strait, 

Recite  some  good  ’gainst  every  sin. 
Unfold  at  last  the  happy  gate, 

And  lead  their  scribe  and  Ollamh  in  ! 


WISHES. 

ADDRESSED  TO  MRS.  J.  S . 

I. 

What  shall  we  wish  the  friends  we  love, 

To  wish  them  well  ? 

That  fortune  ever  may  propitious  prove, 

And  honor  bear  the  bell  ? 

Or  that  the  chast’ning  hand  of  grief, 

If  come  it  must, 

May  spare  the  stem,  while  scattering  the  leaf 
Low  in  the  dust ! 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


461 


ii. 

Then  let  us  wish  our  lov’d — the  youthful  zest — 

To  wish  them  well — 

That  laughs  with  childhood,  gladdens  for  the  guest — 
That  loves  to  tell, 

With  brow  unshamed,  the  story  of  its  youth, 

Its  simple  tale — 

Proving  a life  well  spent,  leads  on,  in  sooth, 

To  old  age,  green  and  hale  ! 

m. 

This  life  we  lead  in  outward  acts,  ’tis  known 
Is  ill  contained — 

By  heart  and  hand,  not  equipage  alone — 

Our  goals  are  gained ; 

Trappings  and  harness  made  for  passing  show, 

Are  little  worth, 

When  halts  the  hearse,  where  all  things  human  go, 
With  earth — to  earth ! 


TO  MR.  KENNEDY,  THE  SCOTTISH  MINSTREL, 

ON  HIS  REVISITING  MONTREAL. 

I. 

Full  often  we  ponder’d,  as  distant  you  wander’d, 

If  friends  rose  around  you  like  light  on  the  lea — 

Earth’s  fragrance  unsealing,  fair  prospects  revealing, 

With  welcome  as  loyal  as  wishes  were  free. 

ii. 

For  the  songs  you  had  sung  us  were  never  forgotten, 

And  your  name  among  all  our  rejoicings  would  blend; 

Nor  was  it  the  Minstrel  alone  was  remembered, 

Every  verse  seemed  to  breathe  of  the  man  and  the  friend. 


- 


III. 


May  the  promise  of  spring,  and  the  fullness  of  summer, 
The  burthen  of  many  an  old  Scottish  song, 

Be  before  you  wherever  your  duty  may  call  you, 

And  the  fruits  of  your  harvest  remain  with  you  long. 


IV. 

And  when  for  repose  in  some  hour  you  are  sighing — 
For  even  a Minstrel  must  pause  in  his  strain — 

To  one  point  in  the  north,  like  the  needle  returning, 
May  the  magnet  of  friendship  here  have  you  remain  ! 


IN  MEMORIA  M. 

[Mary  Ann  Devaney,  a child  of  twelve  years,  daughter  of  the  author’s 
friend,  Mr.  L.  Devaney  of  Montreal,  lost  her  life  while  endeavoring  to  save  two 
of  her  playmates  who  had  been  skating  on  the  Welland  Canal,  at  St.  Catherine’s, 
C.  W.,  on  Thursday,  March  3, 1864.] 

Lost,  lost  to  us  on  earth,  O daughter  dearest ! 

Torn,  as  by  a whirlwind,  swift  away; 

Little  we  know,  when  morning’s  skies  are  clearest, 

What  tempests  may  engulf  the  closing  day ! 

Who  would  have  dreamt,  as,  down  to  that  sad  water, 
They  met  thee  passing,  buoyant  as  a bird, 

They’d  see  no  more  thy  face,  O angel  daughter ! 

They’d  hear  no  more  the  gentle  voice  they  heard ! 

Mary,  “ a tear  ” is  said  to  be  in  Hebrew ; 

Ah ! many  a tear  thy  death  to  us  hath  cost ! 

But  if  all  little  maidens  grew  as  she  grew, 

They  might  be  strangely  absent — never  lost ! 


t 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFPuVTWMS. 


4G3 


No  turf  enwraps  her,  and  no  tomb  incloses* 

The  mortal  frame,  but  far  in  other  spheres 
Our  little  maiden  gathers  Heaven’s  bright  roses, 
Whose  roots  still  widen,  fed  by  human  tears. 

Sorrow  is  mighty,  but  a mightier  spirit 
Descends  upon  the  household  of  the  just, 
Saying — “ Pray  to  God,  that  dying,  you  inherit 
Hei'  life  of  life,  beyond  the  dust  to  dust ! ” 


THE  PRIEST  OF  PERTH .f 
(Requiescat  in  pace.  Amen.) 

A PRAYER  FOR  THE  SOUL  OF  THE  PRIEST  OF  PERTH. 

I. 

We  who  sat  at  his  cheerful  hearth, 

Know  the  wisdom  rare,  of  priceless  worth 
He  bears  away  from  the  face  of  the  earth ; 

Peace  to  the  soul  of  the  Priest  of  Perth ! 

H. 

Dead  ! and  his  sun  of  life  so  high  1 
Dead ! with  no  cloud  in  all  his  sky  ! 

Dead  ! and  it  seems  but  yesterday 
When  happy  and  hopeful  he  sail’d  away, 

As  Priest  and  Celt,  to  his  double  home, 

For  Westport  bay,  and  Eternal  Rome; 

Ashes  to  ashes ! earth  to  earth  ! 

God  rest  the  soul  of  the  Priest  of  Perth  ! 

* The  child’s  body  was  not  recovered  until  the  ice  melted  in  the  spring, 
f The  Very  Reverend  John  H.  McDonagh,  of  Perth,  C.  W,;  Vicar-General  of 
the  Diocese  of  Kingston. 

1 


464 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


in. 

Yet  there  was  a sign  in  his  gracious  sky, 

Up  where  the  Cross  he  lifted  high, 

Glow’d  in  the  morn  and  evening  light, 

Kiss’d  by  the  reverent  moon  at  night — 

Glow’d  through  the  vista’d  northern  pines, 

“ That’s  Perth,  where  the  Cross  so  brightly  shines.” 
Many  will  say,  as  many  have  said, 

Bearing  true  tribute  to  the  dead — 

Ashes  to  ashes ! earth  to  earth ! 

Best  to  the  soul  of  the  Priest  of  Perth  I 

rv. 

And  there  was  the  home  he  loved  to  make 
So  dear,  for  friend  and  kinsman’s  sake  ; 

Oh,  many  a day,  and  many  a year 
Will  come  for  his  mourners  far  and  near, 

But  never  a friend  more  true  or  dear. 

Many  a wreath  of  Canadian  snow 

Will  hide  the  gardens  and  gates  we  know ; 

And  many  a spring  will  deck  again 
His  trees  in  all  their  leafy  glory, 

But  none  shall  ever  bring  back  for  men 
The  smile,  the  song,  the  sinless  story; 

The  holy  zeal  that  still  presided, 

Which  none  encounter’d  and  derided — 

That  yielded  not  one  fast  or  feast, 

One  right  or  rubric  of  the  priest; 

Ashes  to  ashes  ! earth  to  earth ! 

Peace  to  the  soul  of  the  Priest  of  Perth ! 

v. 

A golden  Priest,  of  the  good  old  school. 

Fearless,  and  prompt,  to  lead  and  rule; 


POEMS  OF  T1IE  AFFECTIONS 


466 


L 


Freed  of  every  taint  of  pride, 

But  ready,  aye  ready,  to  chide  or  guide; 
Tenderly  binding  the  bruised  heart, 

Sparing  no  sin  its  penal  smart; 

His  will  was  as  the  granite  rock 
To  the  prowler  menacing  his  flock; 

But  never  lichen  or  wild-flower  grew 
On  rocky  ground,  more  fair  to  view 
Than  his  charity  was  to  all  he  knew; 

Laying  the  outlines  deep  and  broad 
Of  an  infant  church,  he  daily  trod 
His  path  in  the  visible  sight  of  God; 

Ashes  to  ashes ! earth  to  earth ! 

Peace  to  the  soul  of  the  Priest  of  Perth ! 

VI. 

O Saints  of  God ! ye  who  await 
Your  beloved  by  the  Beautiful  Gate ! 

Ye  Saints  who  people  his  native  shore — 
Beloved  Saint  John,  w7hose  name  he  bore — 
And  ye,  Apostles  ! unto  whom 
He  pray’d,  a pilgrim,  by  your  tomb — 

And  thou  ! O Queen  of  Heaven  and  Earth ! 
Receive — receive — the  Priest  of  Perth  ! 


EDWARD  WHELAN. 

DIED  DECEMBEB  10,  1867,  AGED  43. 

I. 

By  this  dread  line  of  light, 

Rises  upon  my  sight, 

Borne  up  the  churchyard  white, 


The  dead! — ’mid  the  bearers; 


466 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Sharply  the  cold  clods  rung — 
Silent  for  aye  that  tongue 
On  which  delighted  hung 
Myriads  of  hearers ! 


ii. 


Still,  still,  oh  hopeful  heart ! 
Cold  as  the  clod,  thou  art, 
Ail,  save  the  Saviour’s  part, 
All  that  was  mortal; 
Rest  for  the  teeming  brain, 
Rest  besought  not  in  vain, 
When  into  God’s  domain 
Open’d  life’s  portal ! 


in. 

Well  for  thee  in  this  hour, 
That  in  thy  mood  of  power, 
Truth  was  still  nearest; 
Better  than  babbling  fame 
That  clear  unspotted  name, 
Honor’s  perennial  claim, 

Left  to  thy  dearest ! 

rv. 

Long  may  the  island  home* 
Look  for  thy  like  to  come — 
Few  may  she  ever 
Find  more  deserving  trust, 
Freer  from  thoughts  unjust, 
Than  this  heart — in  the  dust 
At  rest — and  forever  ! 


* Newfoundland,  which  island  Mr.  Whelan  represented  in  an  official  delega- 
tion to  Canada  only  a few  months  before  his  lamented  death,— Ed. 


T 


POEMS  OF  TEE  AFFECTIONS. 


467 


r 


REQUIEM  JE  TERN  A M .* 

LAWRENCE  DEYANEY,  DIED  MARCH  3,  1868. 

I. 

Saint  Victor’s  Day,  a day  of  woe, 

The  bier  that  bore  our  dead  went  slow 
And  silent,  sliding  o’er  the  snow — 

Miserere , Domine  ! 

ii. 

With  Villa  Maria’s  faithful  dead, 

Among  the  just  we  made  his  bed, 

The  cross  he  loved,  to  shield  his  head — 

Miserere,  Domine! 

HI. 

The  skies  may  lower,  wild  storms  may  rave 
Above  our  comrade’s  mountain  grave, 

That  cross  is  mighty  still  to  save — 

Miserere,  Domine! 

IV. 

Deaf  to  the  calls  of  love  and  care, 

He  bears  no  more  his  mortal  share, 

Nought  can  avail  him  now  but  prayer — 

Miserere , Domine ! 

v. 

To  such  a heart  who  could  refuse 
Just  payment  of  all  burial  dues, 

Of  Holy  Church  the  rite  and  use  ? — 

Miserere,  Domine  ! 

* Just  one  month  after  this  poem  was  written,  the  author  met  his  death  by 
the  assassin's  hand. 


468 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


VL 

Right  solemnly  the  Mass  was  said, 

While  burn’d  the  tapers  round  the  dead, 
And  manly  tears  like  rain  were  shed — 
Miserere , Domine  ! 

VII. 

No  more  Saint  Patrick’s  aisles  prolong 
The  burden  of  his  funeral  song, 

His  noiseless  night  must  now  be  long — 
Miserere , Domine  ! 

yin. 

Up  from  the  depths  we  heard  arise 
A prayer  of  pity  to  the  skies, 

To  him  who  dooms,  or  justifies — 

Miserere , Domine  ! 

ix. 

Down  from  the  skies  we  heard  descend 
The  promises  the  Psalmist  penn’d, 

The  benedictions  without  end — 

Miserere , Domine  ! 

x. 

Mighty  our  Holy  Church’s  will 
To  shield  her  parting  souls  from  ill; 
Jealous  of  Death,  she  guards  them  still— 
Miserere , Domine! 

XI. 

The  dearest  friend  will  turn  away, 

And  leave  the  clay  to  keep  the  clay; 

Ever  and  ever  she  will  stay — 

Miserere , Domine  ! 


t 


1 

POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  469 

XII. 

When  for  us  sinners,  at  our  need, 

That  mother’s  voice  is  raised  to  plead, 

The  frontier  hosts  of  heaven  take  heed — 

Miserere , Domine  ! 

XIII. 

Mother  of  Love  ! Mother  of  Fear  ! 

And  holy  Hope,  and  Wisdom  dear, 

Behold  we  bring  thy  suppliant  here— 

Miserere , Domine  ! 

XIV. 

His  flaming  heart  is  still  for  aye. 

That  held  fast  by  thy  clemency, 

Oh  ! look  on  him  with  loving  eya— 

Miserere , Domine ! 


xv. 

His  Faith  was  as  the  tested  gold, 

His  Hope  assured,  not  overbold, 

His  Charities  past  count,  untold — 

Miserere , Domine ! 

XVI. 

Well  may  they  grieve  who  laid  him  there, 
Where  shall  they  find  his  equal — where  ? 
Nought  can  avail  him  now  but  prayer — 
Miserere , Domine! 

xvn. 

Friend  of  my  soul,  farewell  to  thee ! 

Thy  truth,  thy  trust,  thy  chivalry; 

As  thine,  so  may  my  last  end  be ! 

Miserere , Domine ! 


Saint  Victok’s  Dav  (March  6). 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


MY  ROUND  TABLE. 

I. 

King  Arthur,  at  his  Table  Round,  had  never  knightlier 
guests, 

Nor  Charles’  Paladins  such  store  of  love-tales  and  of  jests; 

The  choicest  spirits  of  the  earth  cross  over  land  and  sea, 

And  blow  their  horns  at  my  gate,  and  stall  their  steeds  with 
me. 

Then  fail  me  not,  my  trusty  friend,  be  sure  fail  not  to  come, 

And  your  fellow-guests  shall  be  the  best,  and  boast  of  Chris- 
tendom. 

n. 

Sir  Sherry,  from  the  Xeres  side,  here  hangs  his  Spanish 
sword, 

And  humorous,  though  grave,  he  sits,  and  sparkles  at  my 
board; 

From  Malaga  of  the  Moors,  and  Oporto  by  the  sea, 

Two  gentlemen  of  kindred  blood  came  in  his  company. 

Then  fail  me  not,  my  trusty  friend,  be  sure  fail  not  to  come, 

And  your  fellow-guests  shall  be  the  best,  and  boast  of  Chris- 
tendom. 

in. 

A glowing  Greek  from  Cypress  came  by  way  of  Italy, 

And  brings  with  him  his  tender  spouse,  Signora  Lachrymae; 

Oh  ! thrillir  g are  the  tales  he  tells  of  far  historic  lands, 

Where  once  with  demi-gods  lie  fought,  amid  Homeric  bands. 


474 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS . 


Then  fail  me  not,  my  trusty  friend,  be  sure  fail  not  to  come, 

And  your  fellow-guests  shall  be  the  best,  and  boast  of  Chris- 
tendom. 

IV. 

And  here  we  have,  arrived  last  night,  the  gold-encased 
Magyar, 

Sir  Tokay,  from  the  Danube  bank,  renown’d  in  love  and  war. 

He  telletli  of  three  Rhinegraves,  all  men  of  name  and  fame, 

He  pass’d  chanting  a drinking-song  as  hitherward  he  came; 

Then  fail  me  not,  my  trusty  friend,  be  sure  fail  not  to  come, 

And  your  fellow-guests  shall  be  the  best,  and  boast  of  Chris- 
tendom. 

v. 

Our  former  friends  will  all  be  here — the  gifted  and  the  good, 

The  deputies  of  the  Gironde,  with  nectar  in  their  blood ; 

The  soul  of  France  had  ne’er  been  stain’d  with  the  sins 
of  ’93, 

If  Robespierre  had  caught  from  them  their  high  humanity. 

Then  fail  me  not,  my  trusty  friend,  be  sure  fail  not  to  come, 

And  your  fellow-guests  shall  be  the  best,  and  boast  of  Chris- 
tendom. 


VI. 

And  she  we  love  the  best  shall  sit  in  her  accustom’d  place, 

Lending  to  joy  new  pinions,  to  friendship’s  self  new  grace ; 

And  our  hearts  will  leap  like  schoolboys’  in  the  sunshine  of 
her  smile, 

And  nought  in  tale  or  thought  shall  stain  our  sinless  mirth 
the  while. 

Then  fail  me  not,  my  trusty  friend,  be  sure  fail  not  to  come, 

And  our  fellow-guests  shall  be  the  best,  and  boast  of  Chris- 
tendom. 


New  Year’s  Eve,  1848. 


MISGELLANEO  US  POEMS. 


47  f» 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  A HAND . 

“ I see  a hand  you  cannot  see.” — Tickle. 

I. 

I remember  me  a hand  that  I play’d  with  long  ago — 

It  was  warm  as  milk,  and  soft  as  silk,  and  white  as  driven 
snow — 

It  petted  me  and  fretted  me — by  times  my  joy  and  bane — 
The  lovely  little  hand  of  my  lovely  cousin  Jane. 

n. 

It  beckon’d  me  to  manly  deeds  over  sea  and  land — 

By  night  and  day,  I swear  it,  I was  haunted  by  that  hand; 
Like  the  visitor  of  Priam,  in  the  mid  watch  of  the  night, 

It  drew  my  curtains  open  and  let  in  the  dreamy  light. 

m. 

Beturn’d  from  lands  afar,  I sought  my  cousin  Jane — 

She  grasp’d  me  by  the  hand  that  was  now  indeed  my  bane, 
For  on  the  third-told  finger — who’d  have  thought  of  such  a 
thing  ? — 

Of  the  hand  that  once  was  mine,  coil’d  a horrid  yellow  ring. 

IV. 

Oh,  cousin,  cousin  Jane  ! how  alter’d  was  that  hand — 

And  the  form  it  belong’d  to,  through  that  golden  circle 
scann’d, 

Indicative  of  orange  wreaths,  cradles,  custards,  nurses, 
babies, 

The  daguerreotype’s  original,  and  many  other  may  be’s. 


476 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


THE  STUDENT'S  LUCKLESS  LOVE. 


Brave  was  young  Hugh,  and  cheerful, 
When  I met  him  first,  in  May; 

Dim  was  his  eye,  and  tearful, 

When  last  he  cross’d  my  way; 

And  I knew,  though  no  word  was  spoken, 
Though  no  tear  was  seen  to  fall, 

That  the  young  heart  of  Hugh  was  broken, 
That  he  heard  Death’s  distant  call. 


It  was  not  the  toil  of  study 

That  furrow’d  his  fair  white  brow, 
For  when  his  cheek  was  ruddy 
He  prized  books  more  than  now. 
’Twas  not  the  chill  October, 

With  its  cloud  of  wither’d  weeds, 
That  darken’d  his  spirit  over, 

And  shook  his  frame  like  the  reeds. 


But  when  we  met  at  May-day, 

Though  earth  and  heaven  were  bright, 
’Twas  the  loving  look  of  his  lady 
That  fill’d  his  heart  with  light. 

And  now  Death’s  clammy  charnel 
Houseth  that  lady  dear, 

And  he  sees  but  dock  and  darnel, 

And  Death  alone  doth  he  hear. 


i. 


n. 


m. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


477 


IV. 

Thick,  and  soft,  and  stainless 
Falletk  the  snow  abroad, 
Where  pulseless  all  and  painless, 
Lieth  the  funeral  load ; 

White  plumes  are  nodding  fairly 
The  dark,  dim  hearse  above — 
“ Whom  the  gods  love  die  early,” 
And,  alas  ! they  die  of  love. 


THE  MOUNTAIN- LAUREL.™ 

I. 

Far  upon  the  sunny  mountain,  laurel  groves  were  growing, 
Silently  adown  the  river  came  a hot  youth,  rowing ; 

Looking  up,  afar  he  spied 
The  green  groves  on  the  mountain  side — 

Quoth  the  youth,  and  fondly  sigh’d, — 

“I’ll  pluck  your  plumes,  and  sail  anon,  fair  the  wind  is 
blowing !” 

ii. 

Landing,  then,  he  took  his  way  to  where  the  groves  were 
growing; 

Far  he  travell’d,  all  the  morn,  from  the  calm  stream  flowing; 
In  the  sultry  June  noontide, 

He  reach’d  the  groves  he  had  espied, 

And  sat  down  on  the  mountain  side; 

“ Sing  the  snowy,  plumy  laurels,  laurels  gaily  blowing !” 

in. 

Sat  and  slept  within  the  groves  of  laurels  bright  and  blowing, 
Oh ! the  deadly  laurel-tree,  with  flowering  poison  glowing ! 


478 


MISGELLANEO  US  POEMS. 


Down  they  fell  on  lip  and  brain, 

Oh  ! that  odorous,  deadly  rain ! 

He  never  shall  return  again 

To  his  boat,  upon  the  stream  afar,  so  calm  and  gently 
flowing ! 


DARK  BL  UE  EYES. 

Stkange  that  Nature’s  loveliness, 
Should  conceal  destructiveness; 
Pestilence  in  Indian  bowers, 

Serpents  ’mid  Italian  flowers, 

Stranger  still  the  woe  that  lies 
In  a pair  of  dark  blue  eyes  ! 

In  my  dreams  they  hover  o’er  me, 

In  my  walks  they  go  before  me, 

Bead  I cannot  while  there  dances 
O’er  the  page,  one  of  those  glances; 
Musing  upward  on  the  skies 
There  I find  those  dark  blue  eyes ! 

Woe  is  me  ! those  orbs  of  ether 
Can  I win,  or  banish,  neither  ! 

Never  to  be  mine,  and  never 
To  be  banish’d  by  endeavor; 

Still  my  peace  delusive  flies 

Before  those  haunting  dark  blue  eyesl 


MI  SC  EL  LANEO  US  P OEMS 


479 


THE  LORD  AND  THE  PEASANT. 

AN  ALLEGOKICAL  BALLAD. 

I. 

A bakon  lived  in  Lombardy, 

Whose  granaries  might  feed  a nation, 

And  fair  his  castle  was  to  see 
As  any  monarch’s  habitation. 

But  of  its  chambers  there  was  one 

Whose  inside  ne’er  had  seen  the  light; 

Young  and  old  did  that  chamber  shun 
As  the  dread  haunt  of  crime  and  night. 

ii. 

At  length  this  lord,  more  skeptic  than 
His  long-descended  Gothic  fathers, 

Resolved  to  test  the  tale  that  ran, 

And  round  him  many  a wise  man  gathers. 

The  priest  he  pray’d  that  bolts  and  locks 
Might  fly  asunder,  and  the  devil 

Respect  the  ritual  orthodox, 

And  leave,  at  once,  his  stronghold  evil. 

in. 

An  alchemist  drew  forth  a vial, 

Containing  something  which  he  swore 

Would  ope  it  wide  on  instant  trial, 

If  mortal  hand  had  made  the  door. 

The  prayer  was  pray’d — the  liquid  tried — 
The  iron  door  remain’d  unmoved; 

A clown  stepp’d  to  the  baron’s  side, 

And  craves  a boon;  the  boon’s  approved. 


480 


MISGELLANEO  US  POEMS 


i 


IV. 

Forth  stalks  he  with  an  iron  lever — 

“Hold!”  cries  the  priest;  “rash  man,  depart!” 
“ Great  heavens !”  cries  the  sage,  “ was  ever 
Such  outrage  shown  to  mystic  art !” 

In  vain  they  talk ; his  lusty  strength, 

Upon  the  bar  the  peasant  plies, 

Burst  wide  the  stubborn  door  at  length. 

And  countless  treasures  greet  their  eyes ! 

v. 

“ By  Holy  Rood !”  the  baron  said, 

“ My  prince  of  clowns,  thy  bar  shall  be 
Into  a golden  one  transform’d, 

For  this  great  gain  thou  bringest  me  !” 

“ Nay,  lord !”  replied  the  brave  explorer, 

“ I labor  not  for  mortal  meeds, 

Truth — whose  hard  task  ’tis  to  discover — 

A truer,  rougher  lever  needs !” 


IRISH  PROVERBS. 

From  the  mounds,  where  altars 
In  the  old  time  stood, 

Where  the  pilgrim-scholar 
Treads  the  Druid’s  wood; 
From  the  mountains  holy, 
Crown’d  with  hermits’  homes, 
From  the  far  off  Erin, 

Wisdom’s  voice  still  comes. 

Time,  beside  his  hour-glass 
And  his  scythe,  still  brings 


A UBfJEL  LA  NFA)  US  PO  VMS. 


481 


Proverbs,  far  more  precious 
Than  the  gift  of  kings  : 

Mark  the  solemn  ancient, 
Chanting,  as  he  passes, 

Truths  as  keen  as  scythe-blades, 
Morals  clear  as  glasses: 

“ Young  men,  old  men,  listen 
To  the  sage’s  word, 

Still  ’tis  worth  the  hearing, 
Though  so  often  heard; 

Hear  the  earliest  proverb, 
Time-tried,  trusty  yet — 

‘ Doors  of  hope  fly  open, 

When  doors  of  promise  shut.* 

“ Young  men,  old  men,  trust  in 
What  the  sages  say — 

* When  the  night  looks  blackest} 
We  are  nearest  day;* 

Take  this  creed,  and  keep  it. 
Ever  firm  and  fast — 

That  * long  withheld  reckoning 
Surely  comes  at  last.* 

ft  Young  men,  old  men,  wisely 
Journeying  o’er  life’s  path, 
Know  that  ‘ soft  words  ever 
Break  the  heart  in  wrath;* 
Waste  not  time  in  wishing, 

‘ Gather  tears  or  gravel 
In  life’s  creels,  and  see  which 
Fills,  as  on  you  travel.’ 

* Young  men,  old  men,  humbly 
Bow  your  hearts  to  God ; 


4.82 


MISCEL  LA  NEO  US  P OEMS. 


Bear  up  under  trials — 

‘The  back  is  for  the  load;* 

‘ Censure  others  slowly’ — 

* Praise  them  not  in  haste’ — 

‘ Give  the  bridge  due  credit. 
When  the  river’s  past.’  ” 

From  the  mounds,  where  altars 
In  the  old  time  stood, 

Where  the  pilgrim-scholar 
Treads  the  Druid’s  wood; 
From  the  mountains  holy, 
Crown’d  with  hermits’  homes, 
From  the  far  off  Erin, 

Wisdom’s  voice  still  comes. 


“ LOUGH  DERQ."  . j 

A RECOLLECTION  OF  DONEGAL. 

L 

In  a girdle  of  green,  heathy  hills, 

In  song-famed  Donegal, 

An  islet  stands  in  a lonely  lake, 

(A  coffin  in  a pall), 

A single  stunted  chesnut  tree 
Is  sighing  in  the  breeze, 

While  to  and  fro  “ the  Pilgrims  ” flit, 

Or  kneel  upon  their  knees; 

Down  to  the  shore,  from  North  and  East, 

From  Antrim  and  the  Bosses, 

Come  barefoot  pilgrims,  men  and  maids, 

Through  water-ways  and  mosses; 


T 


mM'Rt.  K.\ 


mm 


»■ 

And  some  from  Dublin  city,  far, 

Where  sins  grow  thick  as  berries, 

From  Sligo  some,  and  Castlebar, 

Come  crossing  by  the  ferries. 

ii. 

Oh  ! blessed  Isle,  a weary  wight, 

In  body  and  in  spirit, 

Last  year  amid  your  pious  ranks 
Deplored  his  deep  demerit; 

And  though  upon  his  youth  had  fall’n 
A watchful  tyrant’s  ban. 

Though  sorrow  for  the  unfought  fight, 

And  grief  for  the  captive  man,  * 

Peopled  his  soul,  like  visions 
That  cloud  a crystal  sleep, 

These  sorrows  there  pass’d  from  him — 

’Twas  his  sins  that  made  him  weep. 

And  forth  he  went,  confess’d,  forgiven. 

Across  the  heathy  hills, 

His  peace  being  made  in  heaven, 

He  laugh’d  at  earthly  ills. 

m. 

Oh ! holy  Isle,  a ransom’d  man 
On  a far  distant  shore, 

Still  in  his  day-dreams  and  his  sleep 
Sits  by  the  boatman’s  oar; 

And  crosses  to  your  stony  beach 
And  kneels  upon  his  knees, 

While  overhead  the  chesnut-tree 
Is  sighing  in  the  breeze; 

* Charles  Gavin  Duffy 




484 


vmmumdm  pwm. 


And  still  he  hears  his  people  pray 
In  their  own  old  Celtic  tongue, 

And  still  he  sees  the  unbroken  race 
From  Con  and  Nial  sprung; 

And  from  departing  voices  hears 
The  thankful  hymn  arise — 

That  hymn  will  haunt  him  all  his  years, 
And  soothe  him  when  he  dies. 

IV. 

Oh,  would  you  know  the  power  of  faith, 
Go ! see  it  at  Lough  Derg; 

Oh,  would  you  learn  td  smile  at  Death, 

Go  ! learn  it  at  Lough  Derg; 

A fragment  fallen  from  ancient  Time, 

It  floateth  there  unchanged, 

The  Island  of  all  Islands, 

If  the  whole  wide  world  were  ranged. 
There  mourning  men  and  thoughtful  girls, 
Sins  from  their  souls  unbind; 

There  thin  gray  hairs  and  childish  curls 
Are  streaming  in  the  wind ; 

From  May  till  August,  night  and  day, 
There  praying  pilgrims  bide — 

Oh,  man  hath  no  such  refuge  left, 

In  all  the  world  wide ! 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  NORTH  COUNTRIE. 

He  came  from  the  North,  and  his  words  were  few, 
But  his  voice  was  kind  and  his  heart  was  true, 
And  I knew  by  his  eyes  no  guile  had  he, 

So  I married  the  man  of  the  North  Countrie. 


1* 

Af  ISCEL  LANEO  VS  P 0 EMS.  4§  5 

Oh  ! Garryowen  may  be  more  gay, 

Than  this  quiet  street  of  Ballibay; 

And  I know  the  sun  shines  softly  down 
On  the  river  that  passes  my  native  town. 

But  there’s  not — I say  it  with  joy  and  pride — 

Better  man  than  mine  in  Munster  wide ; 

And  Limerick  Town  has  no  happier  hearth 
Than  mine  has  been  with  my  Man  of  the  North. 

I wish  that  in  Munster  they  only  knew 
The  kind,  kind  neighbors  I came  unto; 

Small  hate  or  scorn  would  ever  be 
Between  the  South  and  the  North  Countrie. 


GOD  BE  PRAISED! 

L 

I am  young  and  I love  labor, 

God  be  praised ! 

I have  many  a kindly  neighbor, 

God  be  praised  ! 

I’ve  a wife — my  whole  love  bought  her, 

And  a little  prattling  daughter, 

With  eyes  blue  as  ocean  water, 

God  be  praised ! 

n. 

Care  or  guilt  have  not  deform’d  me, 

God  be  praised ! 

Tasks  and  trials  but  inform’d  me, 

God  be  praised ! 

1 1 ■—  ■ -■  ■ 


486 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


A.. 


I have  been  no  base  self-seeker ; 

"With  the  mildest  I am  meeker; 

I have  made  no  brother  weaker, 

God  be  praised ! 


in. 

I have  dreamt  youth’s  dreams  elysian, 

God  be  praised ! 
And  for  many  an  unreal  vision, 

God  be  praised ! 

But  of  manhood’s  lessons  sterner 
Long  I’ve  been  a patient  learner, 

And  now  wear  with  ease  life’s  armor, 

God  be  praised ! 

IV. 

The  world  is  not  all  evil, 

God  be  praised ! 
It  must  amend  if  we  will, 

God  be  praised ! 
Healing  vervain  oft  we  find 
With  fell  hemlock  intertwined; 

Hate,  not  Love,  was  born  blind, 

God  be  praised ! 

v. 

Calm  night  to-day  is  neighbor, 

God  be  praised ! 
So  rest  succeeds  to  labor, 

God  be  praised ! 

By  deeds,  not  days,  lives  number, 

Time’s  conquerors  still  slumber, 

Their  own  master-pieces  under, 


hr  pvaiwftd  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


487 


YOUTH  AND  DEATH. 


Daily,  nightly,  in  the  offing 
Of  my  soul,  I see  a sail 
Passing,  with  a gay  troop  quaffing 
Rosy  wine  from  goblets  pale; 

On  the  wine  floats  smiling  roses, 

Smiling  at  the  joy  they  give; 

Ah ! many  a sunken  leaf  discloses 
How  fast  the  years  of  youth  we  live. 

ii. 

Daily,  nightly,  in  the  offing 
Of  my  soul’s  remoter  shore, 

Rides  a sable  ship  at  anchor, 

Waiting  for  me  evermore. 

From  the  poop  a ghastly  pilot, 

Sceptred  with  a scythe,  loud  calls, 

It  was  theirs , and  must  be  my  lot, 

To  glide  down  Death’s  darksome  falls. 

iii. 

’Twixt  the  ships  I fain  would  tarry 
For  a time  in  mid-life  vale, 

There  reposing  with  my  Mary, 

Mock  Death  for  an  untrue  tale; 

There  reposing  unregretting, 

I would  sink  to  sleep  at  last, 

To  awake  behind  the  setting 

Of  my  sun,  Death’s  passage  past. 


488 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


FALSE  FEAR  OF  THE  WORLD. 

AN  IMPROMPTU. 

I. 

“ The  World  !”  “ The  World  ! why,  plague  it,  man. 

Why  do  you  shake  your  world  at  me  ? 

For  all  its  years,  and  all  your  fear, 

The  thing  I am  I still  must  be. 

I see ! I see  ! fine  homes  on  hills, 

With  winding  pathways  smooth  and  fair; 

But  let  me  moil  among  the  mills, 

Rather  than  creep  to  riches  there. 

n. 

“ A heather  bell  on  Travail’s  cliffs, 

Smells  sweeter  than  a garden  rose; 

The  lumber-barge  outsails  the  skiffs, 

And  saves  men’s  lives  when  Boreas  blows. 

’Tis,  sure,  enough  to  note  the  day, 

With  morning  hail,  and  night  adieu, 

Nor  squander  precious  hours  away 
With  Affectation’s  empty  crew. 

in. 

“My  friend ’s  my  friend,  my  foe’s  my  foe; 

I have  my  hours  of  joy  and  gloom; 

I do  not  love  all  mankind — No ! 

The  heart  I have  has  not  the  room. 

But  there  is  half-a-score  I know, 

And  her,  and  you,  and  this  wee  thing, 

Who  make  my  World,  my  all,  below — 

Cause,  Constitution,  Country,  King  I” 


M ISC EL  LANEO  US  P OEMS. 


489 


AN  EPICUREAN  DITTY. 

I. 

Come,  let  us  sing  a merry  song, 

My  lady  gay,  my  lady  gay, 

Nor  fret  and  pine  for  right  or  wrong, 

By  night  or  day,  by  night  or  day. 

Of  right,  the  rich  man  still  can  have 
His  ample  share,  his  ample  share, 

For  wrong,  when  done  unto  the  slave, 

Why,  who  need  care  ? why,  who  need  care  ? 


ii. 

Is  it  not  plain  the  world  was  made, 

My  lady  gay,  my  lady  gay, 

To  be  bamboozled  and  betray’d, 

By  night  and  day,  by  night  and  day  ? 
Then  why  not  let  the  fat  world  hold 
Its  ancient  course,  its  ancient  course  ? 
Why  rage  against  its  calf  of  gold, 

Or  consul  horse,  or  consul  horse  ? 


m. 

Now  listen,  listen  unto  me, 

Thou  lady  gay,  thou  lady  gay, 

’Tis  moonshine,  all  this  liberty — 

Talk  thrown  away,  talk  thrown  away. 
There  is  no  joy  the  world  can  give 
Like  wit  and  wine,  like  wit  and  wine, 
He  only  can  be  said  to  live 

Who  lives  to  dine,  who  lives  to  dine. 


490 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


THE  STUDENTS. 

A FRAGMENT. 

I. 

Close  curtain’d  was  the  students’  room, 
And  four  bright  faces  fenced  the  hearth. 

Abroad  the  sky  was  hung  with  gloom, 

And  snow  hid  all  the  earth; 

The  current  in  the  Charles’  midst 
Chafed  the  thin  ice  overhead, 

The  wailing  wind  of  night  evinced 
A message  from  the  dead. 

n. 

Four  friends  around  one  hearth  ! oh,  need 
I say  the  four  were  young  ? 

Four  studious  men  who  talk’d  and  read, 
Not  all  with  eye  and  tongue; 

But  one  with  heart  of  regicide, 

To  level  all  earth’s  lore; 

And  one  for  love,  and  one  for  pride. 

And  one  for  more — far  more ! 


m. 

Cyrus  breathed  but  ambition’s  breath. 
And  dreamt  but  of  renown; 

One  of  the  souls  his  was,  from  Death 
Would,  smiling,  take  its  crown. 
Alban,  to  please  a lady  fail’, 

And  wise  as  fair,  did  toil ; 

And  Eustace,  as  became  an  heir, 

Was  liberal  of  his  oil. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


491 


IV. 

But  Harry  wrestled  with  the  Past, 
And  woo’d  the  old  and  dim, 

And  bound  the  passing  spirit  fast 
That  answer’d  unto  him. 

That  in  his  heart,  as  in  a cup, 

The  heroic  thoughts  of  old 
Might  be  transmuted,  coffer’d  up, 
As  misers  guard  their  gold. 


v. 

Heroic  youth  ! to  him  it  seem’d 
’Twere  joyful  but  to  die, 

In  any  breach  above  which  stream’d 
The  banner  Liberty ! 

The  scaffold-altar,  prison-shrine, 
Where  Freedom’s  martyrs  bled 
* * * * 


GRAVES  IN  THE  FOREST. 

Three  little  graves,  you  can  dimly  see, 

Made  in  the  shade  of  the  tall  pine-tree; 

The  woodman  turns  his  feet  aside, 

Where  the  mother’s  tears  hath  the  flowers  supplied; 
For  there  they  bloom  when  no  bud  elsewhere 
Opens  its  folds  to  the  chill  lake  air ; 

A rustic  cross  stands  over  all, 

And  over  the  cross,  the  pine-tree  tall; 

So  while  the  young  souls  are  with  the  blest. 

On  the  grave  of  grief 
Grows  the  flower,  Belief, 

JLi.lhp  snkmin  wnnh  of  tbo  Wrat,. 


492 


MIS  CEL  LA  NEO  US  P O EMS. 


The  flower,  Relief,  on  the  young  wife’s  breast, 

Is  caught  in  an  infant’s  soft  caress; 

And  it  sheds  its  perfume  round  the  room, 

And  lends  to  the  mother’s  cheek  new  bloom ; 

So  fair,  so  constant,  its  rosy  hue, 

You  would  never  deem  on  what  soil  it  grew. 

There  is  no  ill  but  God  can  cure, 

Nor  any  that  man  may  not  endure; 

So,  while  the  young  souls  are  with  the  blest, 

On  the  grave  of  grief 
Grows  the  flower,  Relief, 

In  the  solemn  woods  of  the  West. 

A PLEA  FOR  THE  POOR. 

SONNET. 

’Tis  most  true,  madam ! the  poor  wretch  you  turn’d 
Forth  from  your  door  was  not  of  aspect  fair; 

His  back  was  crooked,  his  eye,  boa-like,  burn’d, 
Wild  and  inhuman  hung  his  matted  hair; 

His  wit’s  unmannerly,  uncouth  his  speech, 
Awkward  his  gait;  but,  madam,  pray  recall 
How  little  Fate  hath  placed  within  his  reach, 

His  lot  in  life — that  may  account  for  all. 

His  bed  hath  been  the  inhospitable  stones, 

His  canopy  the  weeping  mists  of  night; 

Such  savage  shifts  have  warp’d  his  mind  and  bones, 
And  sent  him  all  unseemly  to  your  sight. 

Want  is  no  courtier — Woe  neglects  all  grace; 

He  hunger’d,  and  he  had  it  in  his  face ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


493 


LINES  WRITTEN  ON  THE  FLY-LEAF  OF  A BOOK. 

l. 

A child  of  Ireland,  far  from  Ireland’s  shore, 
Inscribes  his  name  beneath,  and  fondly  prays 

For  this  book’s  little  mistress  friends  galore , 

And  peaceful  nights,  and  happy,  happy  days. 

H. 

And  that,  when  her  best  friends  are  by  her  side, 
And  light  and  gladness  are  her  pages  twain, 

She  still  may  think  with  fondness  and  with  pride 
Of  her  parental  island  of  the  main. 

m. 

Two  things  alone  in  life  we  can  call  ours — 

The  holy  cross  and  love  of  native  land ; 

Nor  all  earth’s  envy,  nor  the  infernal  powers, 

Can  make  us  poor,  with  these  on  either  hand. 


DONNA  VIOLETTA. 

A SPANISH  BALLAD,  NOT  IN  LOCKHART’S  COLLECTION. 

I. 

Lythe  and  listen  ladies  gay,  and  gentle  gallants  listen: 

In  Donna  Violetta’s  eyes  the  pearly  tear-drops  glisten; 

The  hour  has  come — the  priest  has  come — have  come  the 
bridemaids  three, 

The  groomsman’s  there,  but  ah ! the  groom,  alas  ! and  where 
is  he  ? 

Then  sadly  sigh’d  that  mother  sage,  “It  is  provoking,  really; 

What  can  the  good  knight  mean,  oi  plead  to  justify  his 
delay?” 


mAvm  r.A  rrr?y*  njum. 


TUT 


And  red  and  pale  alternate,  turned  the  bride  as  wore  the 
morning, 

And  there  she  stood  amid  a crowd,  half  sorrowing,  half 
scorning. 


H. 

At  last  outspoke  the  best  bridesmaid,  as  on  the  timepiece 
glancing, 

Her  black  eyes  fired,  and  her  small  foot  beneath  her  robe 
kept  dancing: 

“ If  I were  you,  sweet  coz,”  she  said,  “I’d  die  before  I’d  let  a 

Man  put  ring,  who  first  put  slight,  upon  me,  Violetta !” 

And  out  bespoke  the  groomsman  gay,  a dapper  little  fellow, 

Who,  though  ’twas  early  in  the  day,  was  slightly  touch’d,  or 
mellow: 

“My  lands  are  full  as  broad  as  his — my  name  is  full  as 
noble — 

And  as  true  knight  I cannot  see  a lady  fair  in  trouble; 

So,  lovely  mourner,  list  to  me,  and  cease  those  sad  tears 
shedding, 

Accept  the  hand  I offer  thee—  and  let’s  not  mar  the  wed- 
ding!” 

m. 

The  lady  sigh’d,  the  lady  smiled,  then  placed  her  fingers 
taper 

Upon  the  gallant  groomsman’s  arm,  who  forthwith  cut  a 
caper. 

The  vows  were  said,  the  prayers  were  read,  the  wedded 
pair  departed 

About  the  time  the  former  swain  had  from  his  lodgings 
started. 

Don  Sluggard  entered  by  one  gate  as  they  drove  out  the 
other 


MISCELLANEOUS  PORMS. 


I0o 

And  where  he  should  have  found  the  bride  he  only  found 
her  mother. 

“His  Costumier  was  slow,”  he  said,  “his  horses  needed 
baiting, 

And  therefore  he,  unhappily,  had  kept  the  ladies  waiting.” 

IV. 

Ye  ladies  fair  and  gallants  gay,  true  lovers  prone  to  quarrel, 

I pray  you  heed  the  rhyme  you  read  and  meditate  the  moral ; 

Full  many  a hopeful  suitor’s  doom  besides  this  has  been 
dated 

From  that  dark  hour  when  first  he  left  his  lady  fair  belated. 

All  other  sins  may  be  forgiven  to  the  repentant  lover, 

But  this  alone  in  vain  he  may  endeavor  to  recover; 

And  should  you  have  a youthful  friend — a friend  that  you 
regard,  oh! 

Oh ! teach  him,  teach  him  to  beware  the  fate  of  Don  Slug- 
gardo 1 


A CONTRAST. 

IMITATED  FROM  THE  IRISH. 

I. 

Bebinn  is  straight  as  a poplar, 

Queenly  and  comely  to  see, 

But  she  seems  so  fit  for  a sceptre, 

She  never  could  give  it  to  me. 

Aine  is  lithe  as  a willow, 

And  her  eye,  whether  tearful  or  gay, 

So  true  to  her  thought,  that  in  Aine 
I find  a new  charm  every  day. 

ii. 

Bebinn  calmly  and  silently  sails 

Down  life’s  stream  like  a snow-bi*easted  swan; 


496 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


She’s  so  lonesomely  grand,  that  she  seems 
To  shrink  from  the  presence  of  man. 

Aine  basks  in  the  glad  summer  sun, 

Like  a young  dove  let  loose  in  the  air; 

Sings,  dances,  and  laughs — but  for  me 
Her  joy  does  not  make  her  less  fair. 

in. 

Oh ! give  me  the  nature  that  shows 
Its  emotions  of  mirth  or  of  pain, 

As  the  water  that  glides,  and  the  corn  that  grows, 
Show  shadow  and  sunlight  again. 

Oh ! give  me  the  brow  that  can  bend, 

Oh  ! give  me  the  eyes  that  can  weep, 

And  give  me  a heart  like  Lough  Neagh, 

As  full  of  emotions  and  deep. 

RICH  AND  POOR. 

k SEASONABLE  DITTY. 

I. 

The  rich  man  sat  by  his  fire, 

Before  him  stood  the  wine, 

He  had  all  heart  could  desire, 

Save  love  of  laws  divine; 

A daily  growth  of  wealth, 

And  the  world’s  good  word  through  all, 
Wife,  and  children,  and  health, 

And  clients  in  his  hall. 

ii. 

The  rich  man  walk’d  about 
His  large  luxurious  room, 

His  steps  fell  soft  as  the  snows  without, 

On  the  web  of  a Brussels  loom; 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


497 


Without,  the  bright  icicles  had 
Made  lustres  of  all  his  trees, 

And  the  garden  gods  look’d  cold  and  sad 
In  their  snowy  draperies. 

m. 

The  rich  man  look’d  abroad 
Under  the  leaden  sky, 

And  struggling  up  the  gusty  road, 

He  saw  a poor  man  go  by; 

He  paused  and  lean’d  on  the  gate, 

To  husband  his  scanty  breath, 

Then  feebly  down  on  the  threshold  sate. 
The  counterfeit  of  death  ! 


IV. 

The  rich  man  turn’d  his  head 
And  close  his  curtains  drew, 

And  by  his  warm  hearth,  gleaming  red, 
The  wine-fledg’d  hours  fast  flew ; 
Without,  on  the  cold,  cold  stone, 

The  poor  man’s  head  reclined, 

A snow-quilt  over  him  blown, 

A body  without  a mind ! 

Y. 

The  rich  man’s  sleep  that  night 
Was  vinous,  dreamy,  and  deep, 

Till  near  the  dawn,  when  a spectre  white 
He  saw,  and  heard  it  weep ; 

He  rose,  and  stepping  forth, 

Beheld  a sight  of  woe — 

His  brother  Abel  on  the  earth 
Slain  and  hid  in  the  snow ! 

1 1 ■'■LJ-I1M  . I«*UJ 


498 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


VI. 

The  stone  received  the  head 
Rejected  by  the  brother; 

’Twas  of  colder  cause  he  lay  there  dead 
Than  the  cold  of  the  winter  weather  ! 
His  blue  lips  gaped  apart, 

And  the  snow  that  lapp’d  his  frame, 
Lay  through  life  on  the  rich  man’s  heart 
After  that  night  of  shame. 


THE  CHARTER  SONG  OF  THE  TOM  MOORE  CLUB .• 

Air— “ A place  in  thy  memory,  dearest.” 

The  Greeks  a Pantheon  provided 

For  their  children  of  genius  who  died, 

Then  let  not  the  race  be  derided 
That  remembers  its  poet  with  pride. 

Chorus. — Then,  while  gaiety  reigns  at  the  board,  boys, 
And  the  wine  in  each  goblet  is  bright, 

Let  a loyal  libation  be  pour’d,  boys, 

To  the  soul  of  the  minstrel  to-night. 

The  warm  Irish  blood  in  each  bosom 
Once  glow’d  in  the  light  of  his  fame, 

And  though  Fate  has  ordain’d  we  should  lose  him, 
We  remember  with  honor  his  name. 

Chorus. — Then  while  gaiety,  etc. 

For,  wherever  his  footsteps  may  wander, 

The  Irishman’s  bosom,  be  sure, 

Through  time  and  through  change,  will  still  ponder 
On  the  genius  and  glory  of  Moore. 

Chorus. — Then  while  gaiety,  etc. 

* The  author  was  then  President,  as  he  was  the  founder,  of  the  “ Tom  Moore 
Club  ” in  Boston  — Ed. 


T 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


499 


THE  TRIP  OVER  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

A POPULAR  BALLAD  OF  WEXFORD. 

I. 

’Twas  night,  and  the  moon  was  just  seen  in  the  west, 
When  I first  took  a notion  to  marry; 

I rose  and  pursued  mv  journey  in  haste, 

You’d  have  known  that  I was  in  a hurry. 

I came  to  the  door,  and  I rattled  the  pin, 

I lifted  the  latch  and  did  boldly  walk  in, 

And  seeing  my  sweetheart,  I bid  her  “ good  e’en,” 

Saying,  “ Come  with  me  over  the  mountain  1” 

n. 

“ What  humor  is  this  you’ve  got  in  your  head, 

I’m  glad  for  to  see  you  so  merry ; 

It’s  twelve  by  the  clock,  and  they’re  all  gone  to  bed: 
Speak  low,  or  my  dadda  will  hear  ye !” 

‘ I’ve  spoken  my  mind,  and  I never  will  rue ; 

I’ve  courted  a year,  and  I think  it  will  do; 

But  if  you  refuse  me,  sweet  girl,  adieu ! 

I must  go  alone  over  the  mountain  1” 

hi. 

But  if  from  my  dadda  and  mamma  I go, 

They  never  will  think  of  me  longer; 

The  neighbors  about  them,  too,  will  not  be  slow 
To  say,  that  no  one  could  do  wronger.” 

' Sweet  girl,  we’re  wasting  the  sweet  hours  away, 

I care  not  a fig  what  the  whole  of  them  say, 

For  you  will  be  mine  by  the  dawn  of  the  day, 

If  you’ll  come  with  me  over  the  mountain  !” 


500 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 
IV. 


4 


- 


She  look’d  in  my  face  with  a tear  in  her  eye, 

And  saw  that  my  mind  was  still  steady, 

Then  rubb’d  out  the  tear  she  was  going  to  cry; 

“ In  God’s  name,  my  dear,  now  get  ready!” 

* Stop  ! stop  ! a few  moments,  till  I get  my  shoes  !* 
My  heart  it  rejoiced  for  to  hear  the  glad  news; 

She  lifted  the  latch,  saying,  “ I hope  you’ll  excuse 
My  simplicity,  over  the  mountain !” 


y. 

’Twas  night,  and  the  moon  had  gone  down  in  the  west, 
And  the  morning  star  clearly  was  shining, 

As  we  two  pursued  our  journey  in  haste, 

And  were  join’d  at  the  altar  of  Hymen  ! 

In  peace  and  contentment  we  spent  the  long  day, 

The  anger  of  parents,  it  soon  wore  away, 

And  oft  we  sat  chatting,  when  we’d  nothing  to  say, 

Of  the  trip  we  took  over  the  mountain  ! 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  EIGHTY- SECOND  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE  BIRTH 
OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 

“ Oh,  blame  not  the  Bard  !”  was  the  prayer  he  put  forth 
To  the  age  and  the  nation  he  wished  to  adorn, 

Well  he  knew  that  man’s  life  is  a warfare  on  earth, 
And  that  peace  only  comes  to  the  dust  in  the  urn. 


Yet  who  that  has  paused  o’er  his  magical  page, 
Could  couple  the  bard,  e’en  in  fancy,  with  blame  ? 
The  delight  of  our  youth,  and  our  solace  in  age, 

In  the  bright  roll  of  song,  the  pre-eminent  name  ! 


MTSCELLANEOVS  POEMS. 


501 


Who  can  think  of  the  thoughts,  as  in  torrents  they  roll’d 
From  the  spring  of  his  soul,  and  forget  how,  at  first, 
We  learn’d  to  repeat  them  from  lips  that  are  cold, 

And  caught  them  upheaving  from  hearts  that  are  dust. 


He  err’d — is  that  more  than  to  say  he  was  human  ? 

Yet  how  nobly  he  paid  for  the  errors  of  youth ! 

Who  has  taught,  as  he  taught,  man’s  fealty  to  woman, 
Who  has  left  us  such  texts  of  love,  freedom,  and  truth  ? 

Blame  the  Bard ! let  the  cynic  who  never  relented 
Dwell  alone  on  the  page  that  is  soil’d  with  a stain, 
Forgetting  how  deeply  and  long  he  repented — 
Forgetting  his  purer  and  holier  strain. 


For  us — while  an  echo  remains  on  life’s  mountain, 

While  the  isle  of  our  youth  ’mid  her  seas  shall  endure — 
We  must  pray,  as  we  stoop  to  drink  at  the  fountain 
Of  song,  for  the  soul  of  the  Builder — Tom  Moose. 


CONTENTMENT. 

Men  know  not  when  they  are  most  blest, 
But  all — alway — 

Pursue  the  phantom  Future’s  quest, — 
Anxious  to  stray; 

As  young  birds  long  to  leave  the  nest 
And  fly  away. 

Blessed  is  he  who  learns  to  bound 
The  spirit’s  range, 

Whose  joy  is  neither  sought  nor  found 
In  love  of  change ; 

A tiller  of  his  own  right  ground, 

This  world  his  grange. 


4 


502 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


He  hears,  far  off,  the  city’s  din, 

But  loves  it  not; 

He  knows  what  woes  and  wrecks  of  sin 
Beneath  it  rot; 

Vainly  the  tide  allures  him  on — 

He  bides  his  lot. 

So  would  I live,  beyond  the  crowd, 

Where  party  strife, 

And  hollow  hearts,  and  laughter  loud 
Embitter  life; 

Where  hangs  upon  the  sun  the  coal-black  cloud 
With  sorrow  rife. 

Fain  would  I live  beneath  a rural  roof, 

By  whose  broad  porch 

Children  might  play,  nor  poor  men  keep  aloof — 
Whose  artless  arch 

The  ivy  should  o’ergrow  without  reproof, 

And  cares  should  march. 

The  drowsy  drip  of  water  falling  near 
Should  lull  the  brain; 

The  rustling  leaves  should  reach  the  ear; 

The  simplest  swain 

Should  sing  his  simplest  song,  and  never  fear 
A censure  of  his  strain. 

But  why  these  wishes  ? does  contentment  grow, 
Even  as  the  vine, 

Only  in  soil  o’er  which  the  south  winds  blow 
Warm  from  the  Line  ? 

Wherefore,  in  cities,  if  I will  it  so, 

May’t  not  be  mine  ? 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


503 


Come,  dove-eyed  Peace ! come,  ivy-crowned  sprite ! 
Come  from  thy  grot, 

And  make  thy  home  with  me  by  day  and  night, 
And  share  my  lot; 

And  I shall  have  thee  ever  in  my  sight, 

Though  the  world  sees  thee  not. 


WOMAN’S  PRAISE. 

i. 

The  myriad  harps  of  Erin  oft, 

In  other  days, 

Were  by  enthusiast  minstrels  strung 
In  woman’s  praise; 

And  though  they  sometimes  stoop’d  to  sing 
The  praise  of  wine, 

Still,  nightly,  did  each  trembling  string 
Resound  with  thine. 

ii. 

“ Oh,  who”  (these  ancient  rhymers  asked), 
“Would  dwell  alone, 

That  could  win  woman  to  his  side, 

For  aye,  his  own  ? 

Oh ! cold  would  be  the  household  cheer” 
(’Twas  so,  they  said), 

But  for  the  light  the  mistress  dear 
O’er  all  things  shed. 

hi. 

And  tuneless  many  a harp  would  be, 

And  many  a brain, 

If  woman,  Queen  of  Minstrelsie, 

Lent  not  the  strain; 


504 


MISOELLANEO  US  POEMS. 


And  many  a heavy  tear  would  chill 
On  misery’s  cheek, 

If  woman  were  not  present  still 
Her  word  to  speak. 


IV. 

“ Ye  who  have  seen  her  gentle  hand 
Do  gentle  deeds, 

In  haunts  where  misery  made  a stand, 
And  men  were  reeds; 

Ye  who  have  seen  the  fetter  chain 
Undone  by  them, 

Find,  find  for  that  a fitting  name 
Ye  vaunting  men ! 


v. 

“ Oh ! blessed  be  the  God  that  dower’d 
The  earth  with  these, 

Our  truest,  firmest,  noblest  friends, 

In  woe  or  ease; 

Bless’d  for  the  grace  that  makes  the  earth 
Beneath  their  feet 

A garden,  and  that  fills  the  air 
With  music  meet. 

VI. 

“ And  still,  whate’er  our  fate  may  be” 

(The  minstrel  saith), 

“ Let  woman  but  be  near,  and  we 
Will  smile  in  death  ! 

Whate’er  the  scene,  where  woman’s  grief 
And  woman’s  sigh 

Can  mingle  round,  there  bard  and  chief 
May  fitly  die.” 


MISCEL  LANEO  US  P 0 EM8. 


505 


AD  MISERICORDIA  M. 

I. 

I sought  out  your  shore,  all  storm-spent  and  weary, 

For  over  the  sea  your  name  was  renown’d, 

My  footsteps  wTere  light  and  my  heart  grew  right  cheery, 
As  I trod,  though  alone,  on  republican  ground. 

ii. 

The  sun  shone  so  brightly,  the  sky  so  serenely, 

Your  men  bore  their  brows  so  fearlessly  high, 

Your  daughters  moved  on,  so  calmly,  so  queenly, 

That  I felt  for  your  laws  I could  cheerfully  die. 

m. 

If  any  distraction  assail’d  my  devotion, 

’Twas  only  my  memory  wander’d  afar, 

To  the  Isle  I had  left,  the  saddest  of  ocean, 

Whose  night  never  knew  a republican  star. 

IV. 

But  all  this  is  over;  this  vision  has  faded; 

This  hope  in  the  west  has  forever  gone  down, 

And  worn  out  with  toiling,  brain-sick  and  heart-jaded, 
Where  I look’d  for  a welcome,  I meet  but  a frown. 

v. 

When  cometh  the  Messenger,  friend  of  the  friendless, 
Sweet  unto  me  were  the  sound  of  his  scythe ; 

When  cometh  the  long  night,  starless  and  endless, 

The  bed  without  dreaming,  the  cell  without  gvve. 


506 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


VI. 

Welcome  ! thrice  welcome  ! to  overtax’d  nature, 
The  darkness,  the  silence,  the  sleep  of  the  grave ! 
Oh ! dig  it  down  deeply,  kind  fellow-creature, 

I am  weary  of  living  the  life  of  a slave. 


GRANDMA  ALICE* 

I. 

I had  just  now  a curious  dream, 

While  dozing  after  dinner, 

I dreamt  I saw  above  my  bed 
(As  sure  as  I’m  a sinner) — 

In  words  and  figures  broad  and  tall, 
With  flourishes  a-plenty, 

“ This  is  the  time  that  mortals  call 

The  year  Nineteen  Hundred  Twenty!” 


n. 

I rubb’d  my  eyes — in  fancy  rubb’d — 
To  find  myself  beholder 
Of  any  date  so  ancient  dubb’d, 

And  sixty  summers  older. 

I look’d  about, — ’twas  Cornwall  town, 
But  grown  as  fine  as  Florence ! 
Only  the  river  rolling  down 

Look’d  like  the  old  St.  Lawrence. 


in. 

Out  from  a shady  garden  green 
Came  ringing  shouts  of  laughter, 
I watch’d  the  chase,  myself  unseen, 
The  flight,  and  running  after; 


* This  playful  jeu  d1  esprit  was  written  in  the  album  of  a very  young  lady 
in  1861 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


607 


A group  of  matronly  mamas, 

With  scions  in  abundance, 

Who  pour’d  around  their  pleased  papas 
Their  spirits  wild  redundance. 


IY. 

Hard  by  a thickly-blooming  bower. 

Rosy,  and  close,  and  shady, 

I saw,  beguiling  eve’s  calm  hour, 

A venerable  lady: 

Her  eyes  were  on  a well-worn  book, 

And,  as  she  turn’d  the  pages, 

There  was  that  meaning  in  her  look 
Which  sculptors  give  to  sages. 

v. 

Sometimes  she  smiled  and  sometimes  sigh’d. 
As  leaf  by  leaf  she  ponder’d; 

Sometimes  there  was  a touch  of  pride, 
Sometimes  she  paused  and  wonder’d; 

Her  station  seem’d  all  plain  to  me — 

A grand-dame  hale  and  hearty — 

Happy  and  proud  was  she  to  see 
The  gambols  of  the  party. 


VI. 

I closer  drew,  and  well  I knew, 

In  Nineteen  Hundred  Twenty, 

The  lady’s  book  was  old,  not  new — 

I caught  a well-known  entry  ! 

The  lady’s  years  of  life  had  pass’d 
Unsour’d  by  care  or  malice; 

The  book — this  album  ’twas,  she  clasp’d — 

They  call’d  her  Grand-Ma  Alice  ! 

Cornwall,  C.  W.,  1861. 




508 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


- 


[Of  a similar  character  are  the  following  lines,  placed  ip  a little  Indian 
basket  given  by  the  author  to  the  young  daughter  of  a friend.] 

TO  MISS  M.  S . 

In  a dream  of  the  night  I this  casket  received, 

From  the  ghost  of  the  late  Hiawatha  deceased; 

And  these  were  the  words  he  spoke  in  my  ear  : 

“ Mr.  Darcy  New  Era*  attention  and  hear ! 

You  know  Minnehaha,  the  young  Laughing-Water, 

Mr.  S r of  Montreal’s  dear  eldest  daughter ; 

To  her  bring  this  trifle,  and  say  that  I ask  it, 

She’ll  treasure  for  my  sake  the  light  little  casket.” 

This  said,  in  his  own  solemn  Longfellow  way, 

With  a bow  of  his  plumed  head,  he  vanish’d  away ! 

As  I hope  to  be  spared  all  such  ghostly  commands, 

I now  place  the  said  Indian  toy  in  your  hands  I 
A.UGUST  15,  1857. 


THE  PENITENT  RA  VEN. 

I. 

The  Raven’s  house  is  built  with  reeds, 

Sing  woe,  and  alas  is  me ! 

And  the  Raven’s  couch  is  spread  with  weeds, 
High  on  the  hollow  tree; 

And  the  Raven  himself,  telling  his  beads 
In  penance  for  his  past  misdeeds, 

Upon  the  top  I see. 

* Mr.  McOee  was  at  the  time  publishing  the  Nero  Era  in  Montreal. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


609 


ii. 

Telling  his  beads  from  night  till  morn, 
Sing  alas!  and  woe  is  me! 

In  penance  for  stealing  the  Abbot’s  corn, 
High  on  the  hollow  tree. 

Sin  is  a load  upon  the  breast, 

And  it  nightly  breaks  the  Raven’s  rest, 
High  on  the  hollow  tree. 


m. 

The  Raven  pray’d  the  winter  through, 
Sing  woe  and  alas  is  me ! 

The  hail  it  fell,  the  winds  they  blew 
High  on  the  hollow  tree, 

Until  the  spring  came  forth  again, 

And  the  Abbot’s  men  to  sow  their  grain 
Around  the  hollow  tree. 


IV. 

Alas ! alas ! for  earthly  vows, 

Sing  alas  ! and  woe  is  me ! 

Whether  they’re  made  by  men,  or  crows, 
High  on  the  hollow  tree  ! 

The  Raven  swoop’d  upon  the  seed, 

And  met  his  death  in  the  very  deed, 
Beneath  the  hollow  tree. 

v. 

So  beat  we  our  breasts  in  shame  of  sinj 
Alas  ! and  woe  is  me  ! 

While  all  is  hollowness  within, 

Alas  ! and  woe  is  me. 

And  when  the  ancient  Tempter  smiles 

So  yield  we  our  souls  up  to  his  wiles, 
Alas  ! and  woe  is  me ! 


610 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


HALLOWE'EN  IN  CA  NADA— 1863. 

[Written  for,  and  read  by  the  author  at  the  annual  celebration  of  Hallowe’en 
by  the  St.  Andrew’s  Society  of  Montreal.] 


I. 

The  Bard  who  sleeps  in  Dumfries’  clay, 
Were  he  but  to  the  fore  to-day, 

What  think  you  would  he  sing  or  say 
Of  our  new-found  Canadian  way 
Of  keeping  Hallowe’en  ? 


H. 

Ah ! did  we  hear  upon  the  stair 

The  ploughman  tread  that  shook  Lord  Dair, 

The  President  would  yield  his  chair, 

And  honor  (over  Member,  Mayor), 

The  Bard  of  Hallowe’en. 


HI. 

Methinks  I catch,  then,  ringing  clear, 
The  accents  that  knew  never  fear, 
Saying  “ I joy  to  see  you  here, — 

And  still  to  Scottish  hearts  be  dear, 
The  rites  of  Hallowe’en. 


IV. 

“ Whene’er  they  meet,  on  any  shore, 
Whatever  sky  may  arch  them  o’er, 
Still  may  they  honor,  more  and  more, 
The  names  their  fearless  fathers  bore, 
And,  like  them,  Hallowe’en, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


511 


“ I care  not  for  the  outward  form, 

Tis  in  the  heart’s  core,  true  and  warm, 
Abides  the  glow  that  mocks  the  storm, 
And  so — God  guard  you  a’  from  harm 
Till  next  year’s  Hallowe’en.” 


THE  FARTHER  SHORE. 

How  fair,  when  morning  dawns  and  waters  glow, 
Shines  the  far  land  by  night  conceal’d  no  more; 
Gladly  we  feel  how  blest  it  were  to  go 
And  dwell  forever  on  that  Farther  Shore. 

Nothing  contents  us — nothing  rich  or  fair 

Wears  the  bright,  gladsome  hue  that  once  it  wore; 
Sadness  is  in  our  sky  and  in  our  air 

To  that  which  smiles  upon  the  Farther  Shore. 

Noon  beams  aloft ! the  distant  land  draws  near, 

The  way  seems  narrower  to  venture  o’er, 

Yet  hourly  grows  the  scene  less  green  and  clear, 
More  equal  seems  the  near  and  Farther  Shore. 

Eve  pale  and  paler  fades  into  the  dark; 

WTe  watch  the  rower  resting  on  his  oar, 

Unlovely  to  our  eyes  is  that  dim  bark, 

A funeral  shape  lost  in  the  Farther  Shore. 

Night  nestles  down ! oh,  happy  sleep  and  night ! 

The  winds  are  hush’d,  the  waters  cease  to  roar, 
Let  us  depart  by  the  stars’  gentle  light, 

And  wake  to-morrow  on  the  Farther  Shore. 


November,  1862, 


512 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


THE  STAR  VENUS . 

The  beautiful  star,  Venus, 

Shines  into  my  heart  to-night. 
With  not  a cloud  between  us 
To  mar  her  radiance  bright ! 

Over  the  snow-roof  d city, 

Over  the  mountain  white, 

With  a glance  of  tender  pity, 
Looks  the  Lady  of  the  Night. 

And  I think  of  the  long-gone  ages, 
When,  with  her  sunny  smile, 

She  thrill’d  the  coldest  sages 
Who  sail’d  by  her  Cyprus  Isle. 

O Venus  ! Alma  Venus ! 

Thy  lustre  surprises  nought, 

But  wherefore  so  serene  is 

The  ray  that  drives  distraught? 

Is  it  to  teach  the  lover 
To  hope,  and  to  persevere 
Till  all  the  clouds  blow  over 
That  hide  his  lady  dear  ? 

So  my  heart  takes  thy  chidings, 
Fair  Queen  of  Love  and  Light, 
And  hoping  for  hopeful  tidings, 

It  bids  thee  hail  to-night, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


513 


THOMAS  MOORE  AT  ST.  ANN'S.™ 

i. 

On  these  swift  waters  borne  along, 

A poet  from  the  farther  shore, 

Framed  as  he  went  his  solemn  song, 

And  set  it  by  the  boatman’s  oar. 

u. 

It  was  his  being’s  law  to  sing 

From  morning  dawn  to  evening  light; 

Like  nature’s  chorister’s,  his  wing 
And  voice  were  only  still’d  at  night. 

iii. 

Nor  did  all  nights  bring  him  repose; 

For  by  the  moon’s  auspicious  ray, 

Like  Philomela  on  her  rose, 

His  song  eclipsed  the  songs  of  day. 


IV. 

He  came  a stranger  summer-bird, 

And  quickly  pass’d;  but  as  he  flew 
Our  river’s  glorious  song  he  heard, 

His  tongue  was  loosed — he  warbled  too ! 

v. 

And,  mark  the  moral,  ye  who  dream 
To  be  the  poets  of  the  land: 

He  nowhere  found  a nobler  theme 
Than  you,  ye  favor’d,  have  at  hand. 


5X4 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


VI. 

Not  in  the  storied  Summer  Isles, 

Not  ’mid  the  classic  Cyclades, 

Not  where  the  Persian  sun-god  smiles, 
Found  he  more  fitting  theme  than  these. 

VII. 

So,  while  the  boat  glides  swift  along, 
Behold  above  there  looketh  forth 
The  star  that  lights  the  path  of  song— 

The  constant  star  that  loves  the  north  ! 


GOD  BLESS  THE  BRAVE! 

[A  New  Orleans  newspaper,  the  Southern  Pilot,  lately  received,  informs  us 
that  the  Irish  soldiers  of  Companies  C and  K,  Eighth  New  Hampshire  Volunteers, 
finding  themselves  encamped  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  grave  of  Richard 
Dalton  Williams,  have  had  the  sacred  spot  inclosed,  and  erected  “ a tall  and 
graceful  slab  of  Carrara  marble,”  with  this  inscription : 

Sacred  to  the  memory  of  Richard  Dalton  Williams,  the  Irish  Patriot  and 
Poet,  who  died  July  5,  1862,  aged  40  years. 

This  stone  was  erected  by  his  countrymen  serving  in  Companies  C and  K,  Eighth 
New  Hampshire  Volunteers,  as  a slight  testimonial  of  their  esteem  for  his  unsullied 
patriotism  and  his  exalted  devotion  to  the  cause  of  Irish  freedom .] 

I. 

God  bless  the  brave  ! the  brave  alone 
Were  worthy  to  have  done  the  deed, 

A soldier’s  hand  has  raised  the  stone, 

Another  traced  the  lines  men  read, 

Another  set  the  guardian  rail 
Above  thy  minstrel — Innisfail ! 

ii. 

A thousand  years  ago — ah ! then 
Had  such  a harp  in  Erin  ceased, 


T 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


515 


His  cairn  had  met  the  eyes  of  men. 

By  every  passing  hand  increased. 

God  bless  the  brave ! not  yet  the  race 
Could  coldly  pass  his  resting-place. 

hi. 

True  have  ye  writ,  ye  fond  and  leal. 
And,  if  the  lines  would  stand  so  long, 
Until  the  archangel’s  trumpet  peal 
Should  wake  the  silent  son  of  song, 
Broad  on  his  breast  he  still  might  wear 
The  praises  ye  have  planted  there ! 


IV. 

Let  it  be  told  to  old  and  young, 

At  home,  abroad,  at  fire,  at  fair, 

Let  it  be  written,  spoken,  sung, 

Let  it  be  sculptured,  pictured  fair. 

How  the  young  braves  stood,  weeping,  round 
Their  exiled  Poet’s  ransom’d  mound ! 


How  lowly  knelt,  and  humbly  pray’d, 
The  lion-hearted  brother  band, 
Around  the  monument  they  made 
For  him  who  sang  the  Fatherland ! 
A scene  of  scenes,  where  glory’s  shed 
Both  on  the  living  and  the  dead ! 


VI. 

Sing  on,  ye  gifted  ! never  yet 
Has  such  a spirit  sung  in  vain; 

No  change  can  teach  us  to  forget 
The  burden  of  that  deathless  strain. 
Be  true,  like  him,  and  to  your  graves 
Time  yet  shall  lead  his  youthful  braves  ! 


516 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS . 


THE  OLD  SOLDIER  AND  THE  STUDENT,™ 

I. 

The  star  of  honor  on  his  breast, 

The  gray  head  bow’d  with  years, 

Hush’d  every  roister  student’s  jest; 

Still  ready  for  his  peers, 

The  aged  soldier  gazed  around, 

His  sight  was  somehow  dim; 

We  saw  that  it  was  classic  ground 
That  had  some  spell  for  him. 

ii. 

“ Your  pardon,  gentlemen,”  he  said; 

“ I interrupt  your  game  ! 

But  once  I trod  the  courts  you  tread; 

The  place  is  much  the  same; 

And  if  you  heed  a tale  to  hear, 

A brief,  plain  tale  I’ll  tell — 

There’s  none  here  holds  this  spot  more  dear, 
Though  all  may  love  it  well. 


m. 

“ Years,  years  ago,  when  that  your  sires 
Were  eager,  planning  men, 

I,  stirred  by  travel’s  vague  desires, 
Forsook  my  native  glen. 

I cross’d  the  seas,  and  claimed  the  right 
A kinsman  once  bequeath’d, 

And  long  in  Nature’s  sore  despite, 

This  learned  air  I breathed. 


MISCELLANEOUS  PuEMS. 


517 


IV. 

“ For  not  of  books,  and  not  of  lore, 

My  days  and  dreams  were  spun; 

A banner  some  brave  band  before, 

A bold  deed  to  be  done, 

A rush  upon  some  bristling  wall, 

A midnight  camisade — 

These  were  my  study,  and  my  all 
To  be  of  the  brigade. 

v. 

“ I took  the  cassock  from  my  back, 

I flung  my  summa  down, 

I rush’d  away  on  war’s  wild  track, 

I served  the  Church  and  Crown; 

And  tottering  now  on  life’s  last  brink, 

I come  to-day  to  view 
This  place,  of  which  I often  think, 

And  speak  my  heart  to  you. 

VI. 

“ There  must  be  soldiers  ! yes,  and  they 
Should  have  a mission  clear, 

To  lead  them  on  their  awful  way, 

As  any  tonsard  here. 

There  must  be  soldiers,  and  there  must 
Be  soldiers  of  the  Cross — 

The  bravest,  firmest,  chief  in  trust, 

Or  all  our  hopes  are  lost. 

VII. 

“ Young  men,,  forgive  an  old  man’s  prose, 
Forgive  an  old  man’s  tale, 

You  combat  with  far  fiercer  foes, 

Than  any  we  assail. 


618  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

True  chivalry  of  soul  lies  not 
In  panoply  or  gear; 

Your  good  fight  always  must  be  fought, 
Be  firm,  and  persevere.” 

Nice,  Savoy,  March  14, 1867. 


SUNSET  ON  THE  CORSO  AT  ROME. 

[An  impromptu,  written  on  St.  Patrick’s  Day,  1867.] 

I. 

The  sun  has  set  in  amber 
Behind  St.  Peter’s  dome, 

Like  some  fair-hair’d  Sicamber 
Retreating  west  from  Rome ; 

But  he  will  bring  the  morrow, 

With  all  its  promise  bright, 

With  its  life,  its  strife,  and  sorrow, 

And  its  merciful  “ Good  night !” 

n. 

WTe  look  upon  his  setting, 

A silken,  smiling  throng, 

We  think — life’s  span  forgetting — 

The  darkness  is  not  long; 

A few  short  hours  over, 

And,  all  brighter  from  his  rest, 

Like  a rich  returning  lover, 

He’ll  deck  the  fair  world’s  breast. 

hi. 

Aye ! we  believe  in  being 
Created  as  we  are; 

Holding  that  true — for  seeing 
A rock,  a sea,  a star; 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


619 


Yet  deny  that  the  All-giver 
To  creatures  could  assign 
A cycle  of  forever 
By  a tenancy  divine. 


IV. 

Saint  Peter’s  dome  at  midnight, 

Though  the  sun  be  quench’d  and  gone, 
Will  stand  as  high  and  upright 
As  in  the  day  that’s  done; 

And  the  Keys  in  Peter’s  keeping 
Will  still  be  firmly  grasp’d, 

Till,  from  their  final  sleeping, 

All  men  see  day  at  last ! 

v. 

In  Home,  as  on  Mount  Sion, 

Hides  Satan  from  the  first; 

Now  roused,  a roaring  lion, 

He  dares  and  does  his  worst; 

Now  a serpent,  smooth,  sweet-spoken, 

As  when  he  ambush’d  Eve, 

Through  the  angel-guard  had  broken, 

And,  through  man,  made  God  to  grieve. 


VI. 

But  still  the  Eternal  City, 

Type  of  eternal  power, 

Looks  down  in  patient  pity 
On  the  idols  of  the  hour; 

As  Genoa  looks  on  the  waters 
By  passing  clouds  o’ercast, 

As  Fiesole  looks  on  Florence, 

From  the  high-ground  of  the  past! 


520 


MISOEL LANEO  US  POEMS. 


TASSO’S  TOMB , AT  ROME.™ 

L 

The  tepid  air  bespeaks  repose, 

The  noonday  city  sleeps; 

No  shadow  from  the  cypress  groves 
Athwart  the  Tiber  creeps. 

This  seems  the  very  land  of  rest 
To  wondering  wanderers  from  the  West, 
Who  walk  as  if  in  dreams; 

English  Ambition’s  onward  cry, 

To  all  beneath  this  opiate  sky 
Yet  untranslated  seems. 

n. 

Here  is  the  goal;  here  ended  all 
His  tragedy  of  life ! 

The  honors,  banishment,  recall, 

The  love,  the  hate,  the  strife ! 

A weary  man,  the  poet  came 
To  light  a funeral-torch’s  flame 
At  yonder  chancel  light ; 

When  here  he  summ’d  up  all  his  days, 
Heedless  of  human  blame  or  praise, 

And  turn’d  him  to  the  Night ! 

hi. 

Oh,  holy  Jerome ! at  thy  shrine, 

Who  could  hope  better  meed, 

Than  he  who  sang  the  song  divine 
Of  crusade  and  of  creed  ! 


M ISC  EL  LA  NEO  US  P 0 EMS. 


621 


Who  loved  upon  Jerusalem, 

As  thou  didst  when  at  Bethlehem, 
The  Master’s  steps  to  trace ! 
Who  burned  to  tread  the  very  sod 
Imprinted  by  the  feet  of  God, 

In  the  first  years  of  grace ! 


IV. 

Wrapt  in  the  shade  of  Tasso’s  Oak, 

I breathe  the  air  of  Rome ; 

He  found  his  final  home 
Where,  freed  from  every  patron’s  yoke, 
The  Alban  and  the  Sabine  range 
Down  yonder,  seeming  nothing  strange, 
Although  first  seen  by  me  ; 

Firm  as  those  storied  highlands  stand, 

So,  deep-laid  in  Italian  land, 

Shall  Tasso’s  glory  be. 


v. 

Calm  here,  within  his  altar-grave, 
The  restless  takes  his  rest  ; 
Besculptured,  as  becomes  the  brave, 
With  nodding  casque,  and  crest, 
And  shield,  on  which  we  trace  the  line, 
The  key-note  of  his  song  divine, 

“ Pro  Fide  /”  Tasso  lies. 

So  may  we  find  our  legend  writ, 

What  time  the  Crucified  shall  sit 
For  judgment,  in  the  skies ! 


522 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


ICEBERGS. 

STEAMER  ALBION,  LAT.  46.55  N.,  LONG.  52.30  W. 

I. 

Parting  their  arctic  anchors 
The  bergs  came  drifting  by, 

A fearful  fleet  for  a ship  to  meet 
Under  the  midnight  sty; 

Their  keels  are  fathoms  under, 

Their  prows  are  sharp  as  steel, 

Their  stroke,  the  crash  of  thunder, 

All  silently  on  they  steal. 

u. 

In  the  ruddy  glow  of  daylight, 

When  the  sea  is  clear  and  wide, 

When  the  sun  with  a clear  and  gay  light 
Gilds  the  avalanche’s  side; 

Then  the  sailor-boy  sees  castles 
And  cities  fair  to  view, 

With  battlements  and  archways 
And  horsemen  riding  through. 

in. 

Lonely  in  nights  of  summer, 

Beneath  the  starlight  wan, 

A way-worn  berg  is  met  with, 
Sad-featured  as  a man ; 

All  softly  to  the  southward 
Trailing  its  robes  of  white, 

It  glides  away  with  the  current 
Like  a hooded  Carmelite. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


623 


IV. 

To-day — ’twas  Sunday  evening — 
When  dimly  from  the  north, 
Under  the  far  horizon 

A church-like  cloud  came  forth; 
It  came,  a white  reminder 
Of  the  memories  of  the  day; 

As  a silent  sign,  we  fancied, 

It  paused,  and  pass’d  its  way. 
Sunday,  19th  May,  1867. 


IMPROMPTU. 

A happy  bird  that  hung  on  high 
In  the  parlor  of  the  hostelry, 

Where  daily  resorted  ladies  fair 
To  breathe  the  garden-perfumed  air, 
And  hear  the  sweet  musician; 
Removed  to  the  public  room  at  last, 
His  spirit  seem’d  quite  overcast, 

He  lost  his  powers  of  tune  and  time, 
As  I did  mine  of  rhythm  and  rhyme 
When  I turn’d  politician. 


THE  SEA  CAPTAIN .mb 


i. 

The  anchor  is  up  and  the  broad  sails  are  spread, 

The  good  ship  is  adrift  from  the  land, 

And  the  sportive  spray  sprinkles  the  fair  figure-head, 
As  if  flung  from  some  sea-spirit’ s hand. 


f 


524 


MTSCELL ANKO  VS  POEMS. 


- 

II. 

The  wind  pipes  aloud  through  cordage  and  spars, 

The  sea-boy  sings  back  to  the  wind, 

The  day  is  all  sunshine,  the  night  is  all  stars — 

Was  never  old  Neptune  more  kind. 

hi. 

But  the  master  he  paceth  the  deck  to  and  fro, 

(Impatient  of  fortune,  I ween !) 

Now  his  footstep  is  hurried,  now  leaden  and  slow, 

As  he  mutters  his  shut  lips  between. 

IV. 

And  his  eye  fiercely  glares  at  the  blue  blessed  sky, 

As  if  all  his  tormenting  lay  there ; 

Now  he  smiteth  his  breast  as  to  stifle  a sigh — 

A sigh  that  resounds  of  despair. 

v. 

’Tis  the  midwatch  of  night — still  unwearied  he  stalks 
To  and  fro  in  the  moonlight  so  dim; 

And  unto  himself  or  some  phantom  he  talks, 

While  the  phantom  seems  talking  to  him. 

VI. 

Afar  o’er  the  waters,  an  index  of  light, 

Points  the  eye  to  the  darkness  intense; 

Say,  whence  comes  the  skiff  that  entrances  his  sight — 

What  destiny  carries  it  hence  ? 

VII. 

There  standeth  a form  where  the  mist  might  have  stood, 

As  a sail  her  scarf  catches  the  breeze — 

And  the  ’kerchief  she  waves  has  the  color  of  blood, 

While  her  girdle  hangs  loose  to  her  knees. 


t 


MISCELL  AN EG  US  POEMS. 


625 


VIII. 

There  is  sin,  there  is  shame,  there  is  shipwreck  of  fame 
In  the  eye,  on  the  brow  of  the  maid; 

No  need  unto  him  that  she  should  name  her  name, 

At  a glance  the  whole  story  is  said. 

IX. 

To  the  ship’s  side  she  drew  in  her  ghostly  canoe, 

For  a moment  has  waited  her  prey  : 

In  vain  shout  the  crew,  to  the  phantom  he  flew — 

In  the  darkness  they  vanish  away. 

x. 

When  the  Priest  heard  the  tale  by  the  gossips  told  o’er, 
“ Of  a truth,”  so  he  said,  “ it  may  be; 

For  the  sins  men  imagine  they  leave  upon  shore, 

Do  follow  them  often  to  sea.” 


PEACE  HATH  HER  VICTORIES. 

I. 

To  people  wastes,  to  supplement  the  sun, 

To  plant  the  olive  where  the  wild-brier  grew, 

To  bid  rash  rivers  in  safe  channels  run, 

The  youth  of  aged  cities  to  renew, 

To  shut  the  temple  of  the  two-faced  god — 

Grand  triumphs  these,  worthy  a conqueror’s  car; 
They  need  no  herald’s  horn,  no  lictor’s  rod ; 

Peace  hath  her  victories,  no  less  than  War. 

ii. 

To  raise  the  drooping  artist’s  head,  to  breathe 
The  word  despairing  genius  thirsts  to  hear, 

To  crown  all  service  with  its  earned  wreath, 

To  be  of  lawless  force  the  foe  austere; 


526 


MISCELLANEOUS  Toms: 


1 


This  is  to  stretch  a sceptre  over  Time, 

This  is  to  give  our  darkling  earth  a star, 

And  belt  it  with  the  emerald  scroll  sublime ; 

Peace  hath  her  victories,  no  less  than  War. 

hi. 

To  stand  amidst  the  passions  of  the  hour 

Storm-lash’d,  resounding  fierce  from  shore  to  shore; 
To  watch  the  human  whirlwind  waste  its  power, 

Till  drowned  Reason  lifts  her  head  once  more; 

To  build  on  hatred  nothing;  to  be  just, 

Judging  of  men  and  nations  as  they  are, 

Too  strong  to  share  the  councils  of  mistrust; 

Peace  hath  her  victories,  no  less  than  War. 


IV. 

To  draw  the  nations  in  a silken  bond, 

On  to  their  highest  exercise  of  good; 

To  show  the  better  land  above,  beyond 

The  sea  of  Egypt,  all  whose  waves  are  blood; 
These,  leader  of  the  age  ! these  arts  be  thine, 
All  vulgar  victories  surpassing  far  ! 

On  these  all  heaven’s  benignant  planets  shine ; 
Peace  hath  her  victories,  no  less  than  War. 
Paris,  April,  1867. 


TEE  SUNLESS  LAND. 

I. 

Know  you  the  sunless  land,  where  throng’d  together 
The  silent  hosts  stand  out,  unheeding  whether 
’Tis  summer  heat,  or  bleak  December  weather — 
Know  you  that  sunless  land  ? 


MISCEL LANEO  US  P OEMS . 


527 


ii. 

Mark  well  the  tents  that  multitude  that  cover, 

On  each  the  crusade-standard  flying  over, 

Where  sleeps  the  blameless  maiden  by  her  lover — 
Know  you  that  sunless  land  V 

iii. 

Its  fields  have  never  flash’d  to  share  or  sabre, 

There  reigns  the  night  in  which  no  man  can  labor, 
There  neighbor  knoweth  not  his  nearest  neighbor — 
Know  you  that  sunless  land  ? 

IV. 

There  Folly  wears  all  year  the  same  tame  Fashion; 
There  Wit  the  crowd  around  has  ceased  to  flash  on; 
There  Age  feels  no  regret,  and  Youth  no  passion — 
Know  you  that  sunless  land  ? 

v. 

Thence  let  us  go,  and  slow  its  pathways  measure; 
Leaving  far  off  all  scenes  of  sensual  pleasure, 

There  Let  us  dig  the  cave  to  store  our  treasure, 

Safe  in  that  sunless  land. 


THE  MINSTREL’S  CURSE. 

I. 

“ My  malison,”  the  minstrel  said, 

“ I give  to  man  or  youth, 

Who  slights  a loyal  lady’s  love, 

Or  trusts  a wanton’s  truth. 

ii. 

“ And  on  his  traitor  head  shall  fall 
Not  only  curse  of  mine, 

But  cited  down,  at  Nature’s  call, 
God’s  malison  divine ! 


4 


MISCELLANEO  US  POEMS. 


528 

in. 

“ We’ve  borne  our  Lady  to  the  grave 
This  weary,  weary  day, 

While  our  young  earl,  a wanton’s  slave, 

Is  false,  and  far  away. 

IV. 

“ He  riots  in  his  leman’s  bower. 

He  quaffs  her  philter’d  wine, — 

False  knight ! false  love  ! this  very  hour, 

Where  is  that  wife  of  thine  ? 

v. 

“ He  wed  her  on  midsummer  eve, 

With  taper  and  with  ring; 

His  passion  wither’d  with  the  leaf, 

But  came  not  with  the  spring. 

VI. 

“ She  marked  the  change,  poor  heart ! poor  heart ! 
She  missed  him  from  her  side ; 

She  strove  to  play  the  stoic’s  part, 

She  sicken’d,  and  she  died! 


VII. 

“ She  lies  outstretch’d  in  churchyard  clay, 
She  drinks  the  deadly  dew, 

He  leads  the  revels  far  away, 

The  noisiest  of  the  crew 

VIII. 

“ But  on  his  traitor  head  shall  fall 
Not  only  curse  of  mine, 

But  cited  down,  at  Nature’s  call, 

God’s  malison  divine.” 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


629 


THE  LADY  MO-BRIDE.™ 

I. 

When  I was  a boy,  and  delighted  to  dream, 

W here  the  sycamores  shadow  the  bright  Banna’s  stream, 

I remember,  ’twixt  waking  and  sleeping,  I saw 

The  first  sight  of  the  village-saint  walking  the  shaw — 

The  Lady  Mo-Bride ! 


ii. 

Her  eye  was  as  black  as  the  summer-ripe  sloe, 

Her  brow  was  as  fair  as  the  New-Year’s  day  snow  ; 

Have  you  seen  the  red  berry  that  grows  on  the  yew  ? 

So  shone  her  soft  lips  and  so  gleaming  with  dew, 

Oh  ! Lady  Mo-Bride  ! 

in. 

In  our  poor  little  chapel,  next  Sunday  again, 

’Mid  the  sun-browned  maidens  and  toil-weary  men, 

On  the  hard-sanded  floor,  as  I live,  she  did  kneel, 

While  the  light  of  her  grace  like  a glory  did  veil 

The  Lady  Mo-Bride ! 

IV. 

In  summer  the  fever  spread  round  through  the  poor, 

As  a wild-fire  devouring  a desolate  moor  ; 

Ah ! then,  through  its  raging  how  calmly  she  trod, 

The  pure  saint  that  she  was — on  earth  walking  with  God — 

The  Lady  Mo-Bride ! 


v. 


The  grave-yard  green  crowded,  the  village  forlorn, 
The  harvest  had  fail'd,  there  who  Hiyhh  in  the 


<-oi-ii 


530 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Then  came  that  high  lady,  with  comforts  and  wealth, 
Her  smile  giving  joy,  and  her  hand  leaving  health — 

The  Lady  Mo-Bride ! 

VI. 

But  now  she  is  wedded,  and  carried  away 

By  some  lord  of  the  English,  who  loved  her,  they  say 

And  sad  is  our  village,  and  valley,  and  all, 

For  the  lady  we  pray  for,  but  cannot  recall ! 

Dear  Lady  Mo-Bride ! 


INDEPENDENCE . 


Let  Fortune  frown  and  foes  increase, 

And  life’s  long  battle  know  no  peace; 

Give  me  to  wear  upon  my  breast 
The  object  of  my  early  quest, 

Undimm’d,  unbroken,  and  unchanged, 

The  talisman  I sought  and  gain’d, 

The  jewel,  Independence ! 

ii. 

It  feeds  with  fire  my  flagging  heart 
To  act  by  all  a fearless  part; 

It  irrigates  like  summer  rain 
The  thirsty  furrows  of  my  brain; 

Through  years  and  cares  my  sun  and  star 
A present  help,  a hope  afar — 

The  jewel,  Independence ! 

m. 

Rob  me  of  all  the  joys  of  sense; 

Curse  me  with  all  but  impotence; 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


531 


Fling  me  upon  an  ocean  oar; 

Cast  me  upon  a savage  shore ; 

Slay  me ! but  own  above  my  bier, 

“ The  man  now  gone  still  held,  while  here, 
The  jewel,  Independence  1” 


AUTUMN  AND  WINTER . 

AN  ANTIQUE. 

I. 

Autumn,  the  squire  of  Winter,  is  abroad, 

Making  much  dust  upon  the  breezy  road; 

His  Joseph  coat  with  every  hue  is  gay, 

But  seems  as  if ’t  had  known  a sunnier  day ; 

His  master  from  the  North  is  drawing  nigh, 

Fur-clad,  and  little  favor’d  to  mine  eye. 

ii. 

And  yet  this  piebald  courier  doth  him  wrong; 

He  loves  a friend,  a bottle,  and  a song; 

His  memory’s  a mine,  whereof  the  ore 
Is  ever-wrought  and  never-ending  lore. 

His  white  locks  hide  a head  full  of  rare  dreams, 

Which  by  a friendly  fire  with  gladness  streams, 

While  Christmas  shrives  the  perishing  Old  year 
He  leads  the  New  out  from  behind  the  bier. 

in. 

Oh ! motley  Autumn,  prithee  mend  thy  pace, 

I do  not  like  thy  costume  nor  thy  face; 

Thy  hollow  laugh  and  stage  proprieties 
Tell  of  a bungling  actor,  ill  at  ease, — 

To  live  such  life  as  thine  is  shame,  is  sin; 

Prithee  fall  back,  let  honest  Winter  in 

— r 


t 


632 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS . 


A SMALL  CATECHISM. 

I. 

Why  are  children’s  eyes  so  bright  ? 

Tell  me  why  ? 

’Tis  because  the  infinite 
Which  they’ve  left,  is  still  in  sight, 

And  they  know  no  earthly  blight — 

Therefore  ’tis  their  eyes  are  bright. 


n. 

Why  do  children  laugh  so  gay  ? 

Tell  me  why  ? 

’Tis  because  their  hearts  have  play 
In  their  bosoms,  every  day, 

Free  from  sin  and  sorrow’s  sway — 

Therefore  ’tis  they  laugh  so  gay. 


m. 


Why  do  children  speak  so  free  ? 

Tell  me  why  ? 

’Tis  because  from  fallacy, 

Cant,  and  seeming,  they  are  free, 
Hearts,  not  lips,  their  organs  be — 

Therefore  ’tis  they  speak  so  free. 

rv. 

Why  do  children  love  so  true  ? 

Tell  me  why  ? 

’Tis  because  they  cleave  unto 
A familiar,  favorite  few, 

Without  art  or  self  in  view — 

Therefore  children  love  so  true. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


— 

633 


PR  IMA  VISTA.* 

" Land  ! land  !”  how  welcome  is  the  word 
To  all — or  landsmen  bred  or  seamen  ! 

Deep  in  their  lairs  the  sick  are  stirr’d — 

The  decks  are  throng’d  with  smiling  women. 
The  face  that  had  gone  down  in  tears 
Ten  days  since  in  the  British  Channel, 

Now,  like  Aurora,  reappears — 

Aurora  wrapp’d  in  furs  and  flannel. 

“ Where  ?”  “ Yonder,  on  the  right,  dost  see 

A firm  dark  line,  and  close  thereunder 
A white  line  drawn  along  the  sea, 

A flashing  line  whose  voice  is  thunder  ?’ 

“ It  seems  to  be  a fearsome  coast — 

No  trees,  no  hospitable  whiffs — 

God  help  the  crew  whose  ship  is  lost 
On  yonder  homicidal  cliffs  !” 

“ Amen ! say  I,  to  that  sweet  prayer; 

The  land,  indeed,  looks  sad  and  stern, 

No  female  savans'  field-day  there, 

Collecting  butterflies  and  fern. 

An  iron  land  it  seems  from  far, 

On  which  no  shepherd’s  flock  reposes; 
Lash’d  by  the  elemental  war, 

The  land  is  not  a land  of  roses.” 

Proudly,  oh  Prima  Vista  ! still, 

Where  sweeps  the  sea-hawk’s  fearless  pinion, 
Do  thou  unfurl  from  every  hill 

The  banner  of  the  New  Dominion  ! 


* Newfoundland. 


4- 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


534 

Proudly  to  all  who  sail  the  sea, 

Bear  then,  advanced,  the  Union  standard. 

And  friendly  may  its  welcome  be 

To  all  men,  seaward  bound  or  landward  I 

All  hail ! old  Prima  Vista  ! long 

As  break  the  billows  on  thy  boulders, 

Will  seamen  hail  thy  lights  with  song. 

And  home-hopes  quicken  all  beholders. 

Long  as  thy  headlands  point  the  way 
Between  man’s  old  and  new  creation, 

Evil  fall  from  thee  like  the  spray, 

And  hope  illumine  every  station  ! 

Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  count  o’er 
The  spoils  of  ocean,  won  by  labor; 

Long  may  the  free,  unbolted  door 
Be  open  to  each  trusty  neighbor ! 

Long,  long  may  blossom  on  thy  rocks 
Thy  sea-pinks,  fragrant  as  the  heather; 

Thy  maidens  of  the  flowing  locks 

Safe  shelter’d  from  life’s  stormy  weather ! 

Yes ! this  is  Prima  Vista  ! this 

The  very  landmark  we  have  prayed  for; 

Darkly  they  wander  who  have  miss’d 

The  guidance  yon  stern  land  was  made  for. 

Call  it  not  homicidal,  then, 

The  New  World’s  outwork,  grim  its  beauty; 

This  guardian  of  the  lives  of  men, 

Clad  in  the  garb  that  does  its  duty  1 

Less  gaily  trills  the  lover  lark 

Above  the  singing  swain  at  morning, 

Than  rings  through  sea-mists  chill  and  dark 
This  name  of  welcome  and  of  warning. 


I 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  535 

Not  happier  to  his  cell  may  go 

The  saint,  triumphant  o’er  temptation, 

Than  the  worn  captain  turns  below, 

Relieved  as  by  a revelation. 

How  blest,  when  Cabot  ventured  o’er 
This  northern  sea,  yon  rocks  rose  gleaming  1 
A promised  land  seem’d  Labrador 

(Nor  was  the  promise  all  in  seeming) ; 

Strong  sea-wall,  still  it  stands  to  guard 
An  island  fertile,  fair  as  any, 

The  rich,  but  the  unreap’d  reward 
Of  Cabot  and  of  Verrazzani! 


RELIGIOUS  TOEMS. 


ETERNITY. 

“ Dies  irae,  dies  illae, 

Solvet,  secultm  in  flavillae.” 


L 


All  men  are  marshall’d  in  array, 
And  order’d  for  the  Judgment  Day  1 
The  grave  is  but  a gate  whereby 
They  pass  into  eternity. 

n. 


More  fearful  will  that  hour  be 
When  every  wave  of  every  sea 
Will  find  a voice,  and  all  shall  cry — 
“ Behold,  behold,  eternity  !” 


m. 


The  metals  which  the  mountains  hold, 
Like  tears  adown  them  shall  be  roll’d; 
The  blinded  earth,  the  shining  sun, 

To  the  dread  end  will  stagger  on  I 

rv. 

Nought  shall  endure  from  pole  to  pole, 
Nought,  save  th’  imperishable  soul; 
The  sea  shall  pass,  the  stars  decay, 
Souls  only  can  survive  that  day ! 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 

T. 

O God  of  justice ! God  of  love  ! 
Rain  down  Thy  mercies  from  above. 
And  make  our  sinful  souls  to  be 
Worthy  to  dwell  for  aye  with  Thee  ! 


VR 

Teach  us  to  live  our  little  time, 

By  thy  deliver’d  law  sublime; 

Teach  us  to  die,  so  that  we  may 
Endure,  in  faith,  Thy  Judgment  Day  1 


THE  SAINTS  OF  ERIN. 

A FRAGMENT. 

How  shall  I sing  the  heavenly  host 
That  burn’d  of  old  on  Ireland’s  coast, 
When  their  joint  lustre  shone  afar, 
The  Gothic  world’s  morning  star  ? 
Their  pious  arts,  their  sacred  names 
Live  still  in  honor’d  ancient  fanes, 
Gray  guardians  of  the  isle  or  lake, 
Frequented  for  the  founder’s  sake. 

Sad  is  the  change,  and  sad  the  time, 
When  into  hands  unmeet  as  mine, 
Descends  the  white  and  purple  thread 
Of  what  they  suffer’d,  what  they  said. 
Breathes  there  no  more  a soul  of  fire 
To  wake  to  praise  the  Irish  lyre  ? 

To  chant  in  high,  enduring  song 

A lay  to  be  remember’d  long  ? 

— 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


541 


Has  green  Momonia  lost  the  art 
Through  the  ear  to  reach  the  heart? 
Gushes  there  from  no  northern  mount 
Of  sacred  song  the  crystal  fount  ? 

Has  Shannon’s  tide  no  magic  spring, 
Where  he  who  drinks  perforce  must  sing? 
Lies  Leinster  voiceless  as  the  clod 
Before  the  theme — the  Saints  of  God  ? 

Not  so  ! not  so  ! * * 


HYMN  TO  SAINT  PATRICK. 

I. 

Oh  thou ! Apostle  of  our  race, 

Look  down  from  thy  bright  dwelling-place 
On  us  thy  suppliant  sons,  and  hear 
The  prayer  we  offer  to  thine  ear. 


n. 

Enthroned  upon  the  eternal  hills 
Where  spring  salvation’s  crystal  rills, 
Dear  Father  ! from  thy  chalice  grant 
That  saving  draught  for  which  we  pant 


in. 

Standing  hard  by  the  awful  throne 
Where  rules  the  mystic  Three  in  One, 
Beseech,  oh  Father  ! for  thy  race 
The  entail  of  God’s  precious  grace ! 


IV. 

By  the  bright  brotherhood  of  Saints, 
By  weak  humanity’s  complaints, 

By  all  our  wants  and  all  your  bliss, 
Saint  Patrick,  hear  our  prayer  in  this  ! 


642 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


THE  CELT'S  PRAYER . 


I. 

Oh,  King  of  Heaven ! who  dweUeth  throned  afar 
Beyond  the  hills,  the  skylark,  and  the  star, 
Whose  ear  was  never  shut  to  our  complaints, 
Look  down  and  hear  the  children  of  thy  Saints  1 

LL 

We  ask  no  strength  of  arm,  or  heart,  0 Lord! 
We  still  can  hoist  the  sail  and  ply  the  sword, 

We  ask  no  gifts  of  grain — our  soil  still  bears 
Abundant  harvests  to  the  fruitful  years  ! 

m. 

The  gift,  O Lord,  we  need,  to  David’s  son 
You  gave,  for  asking,  once  in  Gabaon; 

The  gift  of  Wisdom,  which,  of  all  your  powers, 
Most  needful  is,  dread  Lord  ! to  us  and  ours  ! 


IV. 

Our  race  was  mighty  once,  when  at  their  head 
Wise  men,  like  steadfast  torches,  burn’d  and  led; 
When  Ollamh’s  lore  and  royal  Cormac’s  spell 
Guided  the  Gael,  all  things  with  them  went  well. 


v. 

Finn,  famed  for  courage,  was  more  famed  for  art, 
For  frequent  meditations  made  apart; 

Dathi  and  Nial,  valorous  both  and  sage, 

Were  slow  in  anger,  seldom  stirr’d  to  rage. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


543 


VI. 

Look  down  on  ps,  ok  Sire,  and  hear  our  cries ! 
Grant  to  our  chiefs  the  courage  to  be  wise, 
Endow  them  with  a wisdom  from  Thy  throne, 
That  they  may  yet  restore  to  us  our  own ! 


THE  PRAYER  TO  ST.  BRENDAN. 

I. 

Upon  this  sea  a thousand  dolphins  swam, 

Tossing  their  nostrils  up  to  breathe  awhile; 

And  here  the  lumbering  leviathan, 

Lay  heap’d  and  long  like  some  half-founder’d  isle; 

When,  from  the  west,  a low  and  antique  sail 

Swell’d  with  soft  winds  that  wafted  prayers  before. 

Bore  thy  frail  bark,  Columbus  of  the  Gael, 

Far  from  thy  native  Connaught’s  sheltering  shore  I 

ii. 

Mo-Brendan  ! Saint  of  Sailors  ! list  to  me, 

And  give  thy  benediction  to  our  bark, 

For  still,  they  say,  thou  savest  souls  at  sea, 

And  lightest  signal-fires  in  tempest  dark. 

Thou  sought’st  the  Promised  Land  far  in  the  West, 
Earthing  the  sun,  chasing  Hesperion  on, 

But  we  in  our  own  Ireland  had  been  blest, 

Nor  ever  sigh’d  for  land  beyond  the  sun  ! 

in. 

Shores  of  eternal  spring  might  cross  in  vain, 

For  all  the  odious  wealth  we  counted  nought  ; 

The  birds-of-paradise  might  sing  in  vain, 

Had  not  our  cup  with  too  much  woe  been  fraught ! 


544 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


t 


Then,  sailing  in  thy  legendary  wake, 

We  lift  our  hearts  and  voices  unto  thee; 

Bless  the  fair  realm  that  for  our  spirits’  sake 
You  sought  of  yore  through  the  untravell’d  sea ! 


IV. 

And  for  us,  outcasts  for  the  self-same  cause, 

Beseech  from  Heaven’s  full  granary  some  store 
Of  grace  to  love  and  fear  the  equal  laws 
Enthroned  upon  that  liberated  shore. 

Help  us  to  dwell  in  brotherhood  and  love, 

In  the  New  Home  predestined  for  our  race; 

So  may  our  souls  to  thine,  in  heaven  above, 

Pass  glorified,  through  their  great  Master’s  grace ! 


ST.  BRIDGET  OF  KILDARE. 

LINES  WRITTEN  ON  THE  FIRST  OF  FEBRUARY. 

l. 

How  few,  on  this  once  famous  festival  day, 

Remember  the  Virgin  of  Erin,  whose  fame 
Oft  bow’d  down  the  nations  devoutly  to  pray, 

Of  Kildare’s  holy  abbess  invoking  the  name ! 

ii. 

On  the  Alps  of  the  Swiss,  on  the  friths  of  the  Dane, 

When  the  cross  had  supplanted  idolatry's  sign, 

How  the  sons  of  the  Gentiles  surrounded  thy  fame, 

What  homage,  O Virgin  ! what  conquests  were  thine  ! 

m. 

As  a queen  of  the  seas,  how  resplendently  shone, 

’Mid  the  far  Scotic  islands  the  shrines  of  St.  Bride, 141 
But  they  who  once  claim’d  thee,  and  call’d  thee  their  own, 
Have  gone  nnt— but  nh  ! not  to  return  with  the,  tide.  I — 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


545 


IV. 

To  reign  in  one  heart,  through  the  changes  of  time, 

Is  the  fond  expectation  of  maiden  most  fair, 

But  what  myriads  have  felt  an  affection  sublime 

For  thy  beauty  of  goodness,  sweet  Bride  of  Kildare  ! 

v. 

Even  now  may  be  found  in  the  bosoms  of  men 
Some  hearts,  like  the  lamp  at  thy  altar  of  old, 

Whose  faith  burns  as  bright  and  as  steadfast  as  then, 
As  warm  as  its  flame,  and  as  pure  as  its  gold. 


VI. 

Let  them  roam  where  they  may,  they  can  never  forget, 
And  never  forego,  let  what  fate  may  betide, 

To  remember  the  day,  and  to  render  the  debt 
They  owe  to  Kildare’s  holy  abbess,  St.  Bride. 

SERINES  ON  THE  SHORE. 

WRITTEN  OFF  THE  COAST  OF  MUNSTER,  ASH-WEDNESDAY,  1855. 

I. 

Evenings  there  were  when  yon  dim  coast 
Was  lighted  by  a hermit-host, 

Ere  yet  the  fervid  faith  was  lost 

Our  fathers  held. 

How  shall  I,  in  this  callous  age, 

Speak  of  their  choir,  demure  and  sage, 

Who  fed  the  lamp  and  fill’d  the  page, 

In  nights  of  eld  ! 

n. 

A pilgrim  then  to  Erin’s  shore 
Would  nowhere  find  the  ruins  hoar, 

Which  echo  but  the  surge’s  roar, 

That  I have  seen; 


546 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


From  cape  to  cape,  from  isle  and  bay, 
Chancels  would  light  him  on  his  way, 

His  log  would  be  a litany, 

As  it  hath  been ! 

HI. 

How  alter’d  now ! our  faith  how  weak, 
Since  the  old  days  of  which  I speak, 
When  every  galliot  dropp’d  her  peak, 
And  spread  her  flag, 

As  soon  as  saw  the  conscious  crew 
Arran,  emerging  o’er  the  blue, 

Or  the  wild  cell  of  Saint  Macdugh, 

A sea- wash’d  crag  1 

IV. 

Mayhap  we  may  have  wiser  grown, 

Since  Saints  in  Erin  last  were  known, 
Since  honors  from  the  deep  were  shown 
To  G-od’s  elect ! 

But  of  all  gifts  our  fathers  had, 

Yon  shrines,  by  impious  hands  unclad, 
Seem  to  my  soul  the  loss  most  sad — 
Religion  wreck’d! 

v. 

Wreck’d ! no,  not  so  ! the  eternal  shrine 
Secure  may  stand,  unquench’d  may  shine, 
In  every  breast,  in  mine  and  thine, 

Mine  early  friend ! 

The  baffled  tyrant  cannot  tear 
From  out  the  heart,  once  rooted  there, 
The  Cross,  our  fathers’  pride  and  care, 

Till  time  shall  end  ! 


— 


RELIGIOUS  FORMS. 


647 


1 


THE  DYING  CELT  TO  HIS  AMERICAN  SON. 

I. 

My  son,  a darkness  falleth, 

Not  of  night,  upon  my  eyes; 

And  in  my  ears  there  calleth 
A voice  as  from  the  skies; 

I feel  that  I am  dying, 

I feel  my  day  is  done ; 

Bid  the  women  hush  their  crying, 

And  hear  to  me,  my  son ! 


ii. 

When  Time  my  garland  gathers, 

Oh  ! my  son,  I charge  you  hold 
By  the  standard  of  your  fathers 
In  the  battle-fields  of  old  ! 

In  blood  they  wrote  their  story 
Across  its  field,  my  boy; 

On  earth  it  was  their  glory, 

In  heaven  it  is  their  joy. 

in. 

By  Saint  Patrick’s  hand  ’twas  planted 
On  Erin’s  sea-beat  shore, 

And  it  spread  its  folds,  undaunted, 
Through  the  drift  and  the  uproar; — 
Of  all  its  vain  assaulters, — 

Who  could  ever  say  he  saw 
The  last  of  Ireland’s  altars  ? 

Or  the  last  of  Patrick’s  law  ? 


548 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


IV. 


Through  the  western  ocean  driven, 
By  the  tyrant’s  scorpion  whips, 
Behold ! the  hand  of  Heaven 

Bore  our  standard  o’er  the  ships  1 
In  the  forest’s  far  recesses, 

When  the  moon  shines  in  at  night, 
The  Celtic  cross  now  blesses 
The  weary  wanderer’s  sight ! 


My  son,  my  son,  there  falleth 
Deeper  darkness  on  my  eyes; 

And  the  Guardian  Angel  calleth 
Me  by  name  from  out  the  skies. 
Dear,  my  son,  I charge  thee  cherish, 
Christ’s  holy  cross  o’er  all ; 

Let  whatever  else  may  perish, 

Let  whatever  else  will  fall. 


THE  CROSS  IN  THE  WEST. 


Oh,  fear  not ! oh,  fear  not ! though  storms  may  assail 
Salvation’s  old  symbol  in  city  or  vale; 

By  the  waveless  Pacific,  by  the  new  Median  Sea, 

The  cross  over  all  shall  triumphantly  be. 


Its  merciful  shadow  shall  shelter  our  halls, 

Even  they  who  despise  it  shall  pause  where  it  falls, 

The  index  that  stands  on  the  dial  of  time 

And  shows  man  his  hour  and  his  errand  sublime. 


v. 


i. 


n. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


549 


m. 

The  banner  of  faction  shall  fall  at  its  feet, 

The  flag  of  the  free  do  it  reverence  meet; 

The  wrath-driven  host  shall  grow  calm  in  its  shade, 
And  repent  of  the  vows  that  they  rashly  have  made. 

IV. 

’Twas  the  first  of  all  banners  unfurl’d  on  our  shore, 
’Twas  the  banner  Columbus  in  humbleness  bore  j 
The  needle  might  vary,  the  crew  mutineer — 

With  the  cross  on  his  prow  he  was  callous  to  fear. 

v. 

On  thy  shores,  G-uahania,  when  white  men  first  stood, 
Their  speech  was  the  Spanish,  their  standard  the  rood; 
Upon  Oregon’s  slopes,  over  Labrador’s  sands 
Still  the  cross  of  the  Jesuit  pioneer  stands. 


VI. 

Then  fear  not ! oh,  fear  not ! though  storms  may  assail 
Salvation’s  old  symbol  in  city  or  vale; 

By  the  waveless  Pacific,  by  the  new  Median  Sea, 

The  cross  over  all  shall  triumphantly  be. 


THE  HERMIT  OF  CROAGH  PATRICK . 

I. 

A Hekmit  here,  in  days  of  old, 

Lived  by  the  fox’s  lair, 

The  years  of  his  life  by  his  beads  he  told, 

The  hours  of  his  life  by  prayer. 

No  roar  of  the  clamorous  plains 
Disturb’d  his  wild  retreat, 

His  paths,  familiar  to  winds  and  rains, 

Were  unknown  to  human  feet. 

1 


550 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


II. 

Night  and  morn,  when  the  sky  was  bright. 
He  sat  on  the  mountain’s  crest, 

And  sung  God’s  praise  with  all  his  might. 
Or  kneeling,  beat  his  breast. 

And  when  the  sky  above  him  frown’d, 

And  the  storm  rose  fierce  and  loud, 

He  pray’d  to  Heaven  for  the  land  around, 
Its  weak,  and  wicked,  and  proud. 

hi. 

And  many  a tempted  levin  brand 
From  its  destin’d  aim  was  turn’d, 

And  many  a sinful  ship  made  land 
The  sea  would  have  inurn’d; 

And  many  whose  final  ’counting  hour 
Was  come,  got  Time  of  Grace ; 

And  many  a high  and  haughty  tower 
His  prayer  kept  in  its  place. 


IV. 


In  all  that  land  these  things  were  known. 
Through  all  the  proverb  ran: 
u The  chosen  Friends  of  God  alone 
Are  real  Friends  to  Man.” 

Alas  ! in  our  own  alter’d  day, 

Well  may  the  guilty  rue 
How  few  are  living  now  to  pray 
For  the  sins  the  many  do ! 


When  we  are  stricken  with  age  or  ill, 
Or  frighten’d  with  God’s  fires, 

Our  trust  is  still  in  human  skill, 

Or  art’s  electric  wires. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


551 


Oh!  sages,  make  for  me  a heart 
Of  ancient  mould  and  faith, 
And  then  I’ll  venerate  your  art, 
And  honor  it  in  death  ! 


“ WINIFRED  OF  WALES." 

[Written  in  the  album  of  a lady  whose  Christian  name  was  Winifred.] 
Along  our  native  glens,  of  old, 

In  hut  and  hall,  for  young  and  old, 

When  Night  brought  round  her  tales, 

No  purer  epic  was  to  tell 
Than  that  which  on  the  list’ner  fell, 

Of  Winifred  of  Wales  ! 

The  virgin  martyr  fair  and  true  ; 

The  tyrant  sworn  his  will  to  do, 

Whose  wrath,  wild  as  the  gales 
That  sweep  o’er  Snowdon,  and  whose  sword 
Cropt  that  bright  lily  of  our  Lord, 

Sweet  Winifred  of  Wales  ! 

Where  fell  her  blood,  the  conscious  earth 
To  a charmed  spring  gave  instant  birth, 

Whose  ministry  ne’er  fails 
To  heal  the  sick,  to  light  the  blind, 

If  sought  in  fervid  frame  of  mind, 

Amid  the  hills  of  Wales ! 

Auspicious  name ! so  meekly  borne, 

I thee  invoke,  this  holy  morn, 

When  all  men’s  prayer  prevails, 

To  bless  this  roof,  and  her  who  bears 
Thy  name — so  honor’d  through  all  years — - 
Sweet  Winifred  of  Wales! 

I Quebec,  Sunday,  April  6,  1862. 


552 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


THE  CHRISTIAN  BROTHERS. 

VERY  RESPECTFULLY  DEDICATED  TO  THE  CHRISTIAN  BROTHERS 
OF  NEW  YORK. 

I. 

In  the  streets  of  the  city,  where  laughter  is  loud, 

Where  Mammon  smiles  down  on  his  worshipping  crowd, 
Where  the  footsteps  fall  fast  as  the  falling  of  rain, 

The  sad  and  the  sinful,  the  vile  and  the  vain; 

In  the  streets  of  the  city  what  form  do  we  meet, 

With  long  sable  robe  flowing  free  to  his  feet, 

Who  is  it  that  moves  through  the  wondering  mall  ? 

’Tis  our  teacher — a son  of  the  sainted  La  Salle. 


H. 

He  hath  left  his  young  home  in  the  land  of  the  vine, 

For  the  vineyard  of  God — for  those  tendrils  of  thine; 

He  hath  heard  that  dear  voice  which  of  old  calm’d  the  sea, 
As  it  whisper’d  to  him,  “ Bring  the  children  to  me, 

For  of  such  are  the  kingdom  of  God,”  ere  the  soul 
Hath  a speck  of  the  sin  that  defileth  the  whole. 

’Tis  for  this  that  he  liveth — upbraid  him  who  shall, 

Who  walks  in  the  way  of  the  sainted  La  Salle  ! 


in. 

Oh,  city ! that  looking  forth  seaward  forever 

To  the  fleet  on  the  bay,  through  the  fleet  on  the  river; 

Still  laving  thy  limbs  in  the  parallel  tides, 

And  proud  of  the  strength  that  disaster  derides; 
Would  you  win  true  renown — ’tis  a dutiful  youth, 

An  heirloom  of  honor,  devotion,  and  truth; 

Would  you  have  them  to  pillar  the  home  and  the  hall, 
Oh  ! teach  them  the  lore  of  the  sainted  La  Salle  ! 


New  York,  1856. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


553 


LIFE , A MYSTERY  TO  MAN. 


You  ask  me,  comrade,  “ why  I speak  with  awe, 
Harping  forever  on  this  Theme  of  Life, 

As  if  it  were  the  only  care  of  man, 

Instead  of  being  a rope  of  slipp’ry  strands, 

Full  of  vile  accidents,  vexations,  dreams; 

A taper  made  but  to  be  burned  out, 

A better  sort  of  shroud,  a thistle-down, 

The  airy  carriage  of  an  unsown  seed, 

The  wooden  shedding  of  a lasting  structure, 

A very  flimsy,  miserable  makeshift, 

Neither  an  art,  nor  yet  a mystery  ?” 

Life  is  a mystery,  might  be  an  art ! 

Old  men  know  all  its  secret  sleights  and  laws, 

But  when  they  learn  to  live,  ’tis  time  to  die, 

And  so  their  knowledge,  age  by  age,  goes  with  them; 
And  the  young  still  begin  to  live,  as  though 
A past  were  not,  and  future  could  not  be. 

It  is  Life’s  noon,  and  the  young  soul  looks  out: 

Oh  Earth  ! how  fond  and  beautiful  thou  art ! 

How  blue  the  sky  is  ! How  benign  the  sun  ! 

How  glorified  the  night ! How  joyous  Spring 
And  all  the  seasons  look  ! He’s  told 
* Life’s  but  a voyage,  a river,  and  a dream 
And  this  he  takes  as  literal,  nor  thinks 
The  voyager’s  port  is  death;  the  river’s  end 
Is  in  the  sea,  eternity;  the  dream  once  over, 

The  sleeper  wakes  up  face  to  face  with  God ! 

He  comprehends  life’s  sacred  sense  no  more 
Than  the  mute  trumpet  does  the  word  it  uttera. 


654 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS . 


Upward  he  goes,  a-gathering  shells  and  toys, 
As  if  God  sent  him  museum-making;  or, 

Sitting  at  some  siren’s  feet  of  clay, 

He  sings  away  the  hours  with  wanton  airs, 
Flinging  his  reason  from  him : then  for  days 
He  will  be  searching  after  it,  that  he 
May  squander  it  once  more. 

He’s  heard  that  amid  roses  beautiful, 

Remorse,  even  as  crocodiles  of  Nile, 

Chooseth  his  den;  he  well  knows  that  a poison, 
Deadliest  to  men,  has  ever  been  distilled 
From  the  fair  blossoms  of  the  laurel  tree; 

Yet,  like  some  laughing  child  of  Memphis  old, 
Playing  among  the  sphinxes,  never  notes 
That  Good  and  Evil,  from  their  dateless  posts 
Regard  him  with  their  all-unwearied  eyes; 

He  never  thinks,  while  looking  at  his  watch, 

A spirit  sits  within  the  works  to  note 
His  actions  by  the  hour;  he  little  dreams, 
Sleep-walker  as  he  is,  that  even  now 
Angels  descend  from  heaven  every  day, 

And  might  be  seen  if  we  had  Jacob’s  grace. 

His  lawless  will  he  makes  his  only  law, 

His  god  is  pleasure,  and  his  devil,  pain. 

The  first  great  end  of  life,  is  to  be  saved; 

And  next,  to  leave  the  world  the  better  for  us. 
Both  are  commanded,  both  are  possible. 

No  good  man’s  life  was  ever  lived  in  vain: 

Like  hidden  springs  they  freshen  all  around, 
And  by  the  lonely  verdure  of  their  sphere, 

You  know  where  good  men  dwelt. 

But  man’s  true  empire  is  his  deathless  soul — 
How  capable  of  culture  and  adornment ! 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


555 


His  memory,  which,  from  the  distant  years, 
Drives  its  long  camel- cavalcades  of  lore; 

His  will,  a curb’d  steed  or  a cataract, 

Full  of  directness,  loftiness  and  power, 

If  it  were  rightly  schooled ; his  reason, 

An  armory  of  Archimedean  levers, 

Such  as,  reposing  on  the  Word  of  God, 

Might  raise  the  world ! Will  man  never  know 
To  rule  the  empire  in  himself  contained, 

Its  hosts  of  passions,  tastes,  affections,  hopes ; 
Each  one  a priceless  blessing  to  its  lord, 

If  subject  to  Religion’s  holy  law  ? 

Ah ! were  there  many  rulers  among  men, 
How  fragrant  in  God’s  nostrils  would  become 
This  reeling,  riotous,  and  rotten  earth ! 

Then  should  we  see  no  more  guilt  and  remorse. 
Life’s  vernal  and  autumnal  equinox, 

Shaking  down  roof-trees  on  defenceless  heads, 
Scattering  the  fairest  hopes  of  dearest  friends, 
And  strewing  peaceful  places  with  the  wreck 
Of  lofty  expectation ; then  premature  old  age, 
And  gray  hairs  without  honor,  could  not  be; 
Nor  orphans  rankly  cumbering  the  waste, 

Like  garden-seeds  to  some  far  prairie  blown; 
Then  blessed  peals  would  daily  fill  the  air, 

And  God’s  house  be  familiar  as  our  own; 

Then  Faith,  and  Truth,  and  patient  Charity, 
Returning  from  their  long  sojourn  in  heaven, 
With  all  their  glorious  arts  and  gentle  kin, 
Would  colonize  this  moral  wilderness, 

Making  it  something  like  what  God  design’d ! 

Thus  would  I have  my  friend  consider  life, 
Am. L like  the  diver  in  the  secret  sea. 


t 


556 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


Open  his  eyes  and  see  it  all  reveal’d — 

Quicksands,  currents,  monsters,  weeds,  and  shoals. 
Thus  would  I have  him  school,  in  humbleness, 

His  ear  to  catch  the  rhythmic  admonitions 
Which  come,  upon  the  wings  of  every  wind, 

From  the  far  shore  where  the  dead  ages  dwell. 

I would  have  him  entertain  such  thoughts, 

That,  being  with  him,  they  might  still  preserve 
His  feet  from  pitfalls,  and  his  cheek  from  shame, 
His  heart  from  sorrow,  and  his  soul  from  woe. 


THE  ARCTIC  INDIAN'S  FAITH. 

I. 

We  worship  the  Spirit  that  walks,  unseen, 
Through  our  land  of  ice  and  snow: 

We  know  not  His  face,  we  know  not  His  place, 
But  his  presence  and  power  we  know. 


n. 

Does  the  buffalo  need  the  pale-face*  word 
To  find  his  pathway  far  ? 

What  guide  has  he  to  the  hidden  ford, 

Or  where  the  green  pastures  are  ? 

Who  teacheth  the  moose  that  the  hunter’s  gun 
Is  peering  out  of  the  shade  ? 

Who  teacheth  the  doe  and  the  fawn  to  run 
In  the  track  the  moose  has  made  ? 

iii. 

Him  do  we  follow,  Him  do  we  fear — 

The  spirit  of  earth  and  sky; 

Who  hears  with  the  Wapiti’s * eager  ear 
His  poor  red  children’s  cry. 

* Wapiti— the  elk. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


557 


Whose  whisper  we  note  in  every  breeze 
That  stirs  the  birch  canoe, 

Who  hangs  the  reindeer  moss  on  the  trees 
For  the  food  of  the  Caribou. 


IV. 

That  Spirit  we  worship  who  walks,  unseen, 
Through  our  land  of  ice  and  snow: 

We  know  not  His  face,  we  know  not  His  place, 
But  His  presence  and  power  we  know. 


A CHRISTMAS  PRELUDE. 

The  seer-prince,  the  prophet-child, 

Who  dwelt  in  Sennaar  undefiled, 
Proclaim’d  with  fire-anointed  lips, 

The  elder  law’s  apocalypse; 

Told  of  earth’s  powers,  their  rise  and  fall, 
Messiah’s  birth,  and  death,  and  all; 

How,  prone  by  Tigris’  shore  he  saw 
A vision  fill’d  with  scenes  of  awe; 

All  heaven’s  designs  in  earthly  things, 

The  fate  of  kingdoms  and  of  kings; 

The  Egyptian’s,  Persian’s,  Grecian’s  fate. 
But,  saddest  sight ! saw  Zion’s  state : 

The  second  temple  overthrown 
From  pinnacle  to  corner-stone; 

Th’  eternal  sacrifice  suppress’d 
By  Gentile  legions  from  the  west; 

Dense  darkness  in  all  Judah’s  skies 
Till  Michael,  Israel’s  prince,  arise, 

And  He,  the  Saint  of  saints,  descend 
On  earth,  captivity  to  end. 


558  REL  1GI° [JS  v 0 EMS- 

Round  roll’d  the  times,  and  Asia  knew 
What  Daniel  saw;  then  Rome  outgrew 
All  other  bounds.  War’s  last  wild  roar 
Lay  hush’d  on  Cantabria’s  shore; 

The  idol  of  the  two-fold  face* 

Look’d  on  his  temple’s  empty  space; 
From  the  far  frontier  of  the  Medes, 

To  where  Day  stalls  his  weary  steeds, 
All  earth  adored,  at  Caesar’s  nod, 

Or  frantic  cried,  “ A god  ! a god  1” 


Then  when  the  day  had  come,  and  hour, 

Augustus  loosed  the  word  of  power, 

And  kings  and  consuls,  east  and  west, 

Echoed  their  sovereign  lord’s  behest: 

“Number  the  nations  who  obey, 

Throughout  the  world,  the  Roman  sway  1” 

Then  throng’d  to  tryst  the  human  tide. 

Kindred  to  kin,  from  every  side; 

O’er  seas  and  Alps  lost  exiles  came, 

Rivers  reversed,  their  source  to  claim; 

Granges  to  Grades,  floods  of  men 

Throng’d  street,  and  bridge,  and  foot-mark’d  glen; 

The  very  desert  seem’d  to  be 

Peopled  by  Caesar’s  dread  decree: 

“ Number  the  nations  who  obey, 

Throughout  the  world,  the  Roman  sway  !” 

Lo  1 from  their  Galilean  home 
Where  two  of  Caesar’s  subjects  come  ! 

Like  tender  sire  and  daughter,  they 
Hold  reverent  converse  on  their  way; 

A-foot  and  simply  clad,  yet  grace 
Abundant  shines  in  either  face; 

* Janus — the  god  of  peace  amongst  the  ancient  Romans, 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


559 


He,  Neli’s  son,  a thoughtful  man, 

Whom  every  sign  speaks  artisan; 

She,  fairest  of  all  Israel’s  fair, 

With  godlike  goodness  in  her  air, 
Conscious  of  royal  David’s  blood, 

And  of  her  holy  motherhood, 

Turns  to  her  guide  with  filial  ear, 

Well  pleased  his  reverent  speech  to  hear. 
December’s  breath  falls  keen  and  chill 
On  Jacob’s  well  from  Ebal’s  hill; 

The  wintry  scene  looks  pale  and  dim 
On  Sichem  from  Mount  Gerazim, 

Where,  pacing  slowly,  from  the  north, 

A mother  near  her  baby’s  birth, 

Through  scenes  Samarian,  bleak  and  wild, 
Borne,  and  not  bow’d,  by  such  a child  I 
For  thou  Ephrata  art  to  be 
The  Man-God’s  destined  nursery  ! 

For  thee  alone  the  star  shall  rise, 

For  thee  alone  the  morning  skies 
Shall  brighten  with  the  angel’s  song; 

For  thee  the  angel-aided  seers 
By  Ader’s  tower  shall  calm  their  fears, 
And  ravish’d  by  the  heavenly  strain 
Shall  seek  their  Lord  beyond  the  plain  ! 
For  thee  alone  the  magi  bring 
From  the  far  East  their  offering ! 

For  thee  alone  shall  Herod  quiver, 
Ephrata  ! blest  be  thou  for  ever ! 

Draw  we  the  veil;  this  mystery 
Is  all  too  bright  for  mortal  eye; 

How  shall  it,  then,  be  fitly  sung 
In  earthly  strains,  by  mortal  tongue  ! 


T 


4 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


660 


In  heaven  above,  by  His  own  choir, 


Where  shines  the  strong  Divine  desire, 
Can  worthily  be  raised  the  psalm 
That  hail’d  on  earth  the  dread  I AM  I 


Up,  Christian ! hark  ! the  crowing  cock 
Proclaims  the  break  of  day  ! 

Up  ! light  the  lamp,  undo  the  lock, 

And  take  the  well-known  way. 
Already  through  the  painted  glass 
Streams  forth  the  light  of  early  Mass  1 


Our  altar  ! oh,  how  fair  it  shows 
Unto  the  night-dimm’d  eyes ! 

Oh  ! surely  yonder  leaf  that  glows, 

Was  pluck’d  in  Paradise  ! 

Without,  it  snows ; the  wind  is  loud ; 

Earth  sleeps,  wrapp’d  in  her  yearly  shroud. 

m. 

Within,  the  organ’s  soaring  peal, 

The  choir’s  sweet  chant,  the  bells, 

The  surging  crowd  that  stands  or  kneels, 
The  glorious  errand  tells. 

Rejoice  ! rejoice  ! ye  sons  of  men, 

For  man  may  hope  for  heaven  again ! 

IV. 

’Tis  but  a step,  a threshold  cross’d, 

Yet  such  a change  we  find; 


CHRISTMAS  MORN . 


I. 


ii. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


561 


t 


Without,  the  wand’ring  worldling  toss’d 
By  every  gust  of  wind ; 

Within,  there  reigns  a holy  calm, 

For  here  abides  the  dread  “ I AM  ” ! 


THE  MIDNIGHT  MASS. 

t 

i. 

Where  the  mountains  gray  and  weary, 

Watch  above  the  valley  pass, 

Come  the  frieze-clad  upland  people, 

To  the  Midnight  Mass  ; 

Where  the  red  stream  rushes  hoarsety 
Through  the  bridge  o’ergrown  with  grass, 

Come  the  whispering  troops  of  neighbors, 

To  the  Midnight  Mass  ! 

ii. 

No  moon  walks  heaven’s  high  hall  as  mistress, 
No  stars  pierce  the  drifting  rocks, 

Only  wind-gusts  try  back,  whining 
Like  dogs  on  a dubious  track. 

Hark  ! there  comes  a startling  echo 
Upward  through  the  central  arch  I 

’Tis  the  swollen  flood  that  carries, 

Captive  off,  a raft  of  larch. 

in. 

Shines  a light;  it  is  the  Chapel — 

Softly,  ’tis  the  hour  of  God; 

Poor  and  small,  yet  far  more  lowly 

Was  the  infant  Christ’s  abode; 


562 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


Rude  and  stony  is  the  pavement, 
Plain  and  bare  the  altar-stone; 
Ruder  was  the  crib  of  Bethlehem 
Over  which  the  east  star  shone. 


IV. 

Conftteor  ! God  of  ages, 

Mercy’s  everlasting  source ! 

I have  sinned,  oh  ! do  Thou  give  me 
Strength  to  stem  my  passion’s  force 
Mea  culpa  ! mea  culpa  ! 

Saviour  of  the  world  and  me, 

By  thy  Passion,  oh ! have  mercy, 
Thorn-crown’d  of  Calvary  I 

v. 

Gloria  in  excelsis  Deo  ! 

Shout  the  paean  to  the  sky ! 

Eyes  of  faith,  in  yon  poor  stable, 

See  disguised  Divinity. 

Gloria  in  excelsis  Deo  ! 

Christ,  the  hope  of  man,  is  born ! 
Shout  the  anthem ! join  the  angels ! 
’Tis  our  Saviour’s  natal  morn. 


VI. 

Praise  to  God,  the  Eternal  Father, 

Who  of  clay  created  man  ! 

Praise  to  Christ,  who  trod  the  wine-pres» 
Till  the  atonement  overran ! 

Praise  to  Him,  the  Holy  Spirit, 

Who  inform’d  our  souls  with  grace ! 
Alleluia  ! ’tis  the  morning 
Of  redemption  for  our  race  ! 


* 


4 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS . 


663 


THE  ROSARY . 

I. 

* Bring  hither  to  me  my  rosary  1” 

Cried  the  lovely  Lady  Anne, 

As,  by  the  sick  bed  where  he  lay, 

For  her  dear  lord  she  began 
To  count  her  bless’d  beads  one  by  one, 
As  the  hours  of  hope  and  life  sped  on. 

n. 

M Jesus  save  us  P’  cried  a knight, 

In  the  pagan  forest  lost, 

No  star  to  lend  its  guardian  light, 

No  mereing,  track,  or  post. 

* Jesus  save  us !”  and  forth  he  drew 
The  rosary,  salvation’s  clue. 

m. 

Brain  sore,  and  feverish  with  care, 

In  Armagh’s  cloister  deep, 

The  scholar  knelt  all  night  in  prayer; 

Thought  would  not  let  him  sleep, 
Till  the  problems,  all  entangled,  he 
Unwound  them  on  his  rosary. 

IV. 

When  fiercely  broke  the  Atlantic  sea 
Around  the  quivering  bark, 

And  the  scowling  crew  with  mutiny 
Made  the  scowling  sky  more  dark; 
Columbus  calmly  tells  his  beads, 

Nor  mutiny  nor  tempest  heeds. 


5G4 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


* 


V. 

Oh  ! scorn  not,  then,  the  pious  poor, 
Nor  the  rosary  they  tell; 

Ere  Faust  was  born,  or  men  grew  proud 
To  read  by  the  light  of  hell, 

In  noble  and  in  humble  hands 
Beads  guided  souls  to  heaven  in  bands. 


TEE  THREE  SISTERS. 

L 

There  are  three  angel  sisters 
That  haunt  the  open  sea, 

Three  loving,  life-like  sisters, 
Though  different  they  be. 

ii. 

One  lifts  her  brow,  like  morning, 
Above  the  waters  dark, 

And  the  star  that  brow  adorning 
Laves  many  a beaten  bark. 

in. 

One,  by  her  anchor  clinging, 

Walks  the  waters,  like  our  Lord, 
And  the  song  she  still  is  singing 
The  dead  to  life  hath  stirr’d. 


IV. 

But  of  all  the  angel  sisters 
Who  haunt  the  open  sea, 
The  fondest  and  the  fairest, 
Sweet  Saint  Oharity  for  me. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


665 


i 


v. 

Her  spirit  fires  the  coldest, 

And  arms  the  weakest  heart ; 

When  death  hath  seized  the  boldest, 
The  burial  is  her  part. 

VI. 

On  a thousand  giddy  headlands 
Her  fleeting  robe  is  seen; 

By  a thousand  bays  her  buried 
Calmly  rest  beneath  the  green. 

VII. 

She  hath  no  star  nor  anchor, 

Nor  lofty  look  hath  she, 

But  of  all  the  angelic  sisters, 

Sweet  Saint  Charity  for  me  1 


A PRATER  FOR  THE  DEAD. 


Let  us  pray  for  the  dead  ! 

For  sister  and  mother, 

Father  and  brother, 

For  clansman  and  fosterer, 

And  all  who  have  loved  us  here; 

For  pastors,  for  neighbors, 

At  rest  from  their  labors; 

Let  us  pray  for  our  own  beloved  dead ! 

That  their  souls  may  be  swiftly  sped 
Through  the  valley  of  purgatorial  fire, 

To  a heavenly  home  by  the  gate  call’d  Desire ! 


66fi 


RELIGIONS  POEMS. 


I 

n. 

I see  them  cleave  the  awful  air, 

Their  dun  wings  fringed  with  flame; 

They  hear,  they  hear  our  helping  prayer, 

They  call  on  Jesu’s  name. 

m. 

Let  us  pray  for  the  dead ! 

For  our  foes  who  have  died, 

May  they  be  justified  ! 

For  the  stranger  whose  eyes 
Closed  on  cold,  alien  skies; 

For  the  sailors  who  perish’d 
By  the  frail  arts  they  cherish’d; 

Let  us  pray  for  the  unknown  dead ! etc. 

IV. 

Father  in  heaven,  to  Thee  we  turn, 

Transfer  their  debt  to  us; 

Oh  ! bid  their  souls  no  longer  burn 
In  mediate  anguish  thus. 

v. 

Let  us  pray  for  the  soldiers 
On  whatever  side  slain ; 

Whose  green  bones  on  the  plain 
Lay  un claim’d  and  unfather’d, 

By  the  vortex  wind  gather’d; 

Let  us  pray  for  the  valiant  dead ! etc. 

VI. 

Oh  ! pity  the  soldier, 

Kind  Father  in  heaven, 

Whose  body  doth  moulder 
Where  his  soul  fled  self-shriven  ! 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


5G7 


VII. 

We  have  pray'd  for  the  dead ; 

All  the  faithful  departed, 

Who  to  Christ  were  true-hearted; 

And  our  prayers  shall  be  heard, 

For  so  promised  the  Lord; 

And  their  spirits  shall  go 
Forth  from  limbo-like  woe — 

And  joyfully  swift  the  justified  dead 
Shall  feel  their  unbound  pinions  sped 
Through  the  valley  of  purgatorial  fire, 

To  their  heavenly  home  by  the  gate  called  Desire. 

VIII. 

By  the  gate  call’d  Desire 

In  clouds  they’re  ascended ; — 

Oh,  saints  ! pray  for  us, 

Now  your  sorrows  are  ended  ! 


SOLDIER!  MAKE  TOUR  SWORD  YOUR  CROSS! 

i. 

Soldier  ! make  your  sword  your  cross, 

Borne  as  the  cross  should  be  ; 

So,  nor  fame,  nor  honor’s  loss, 

Ever  can  o’ershadow  thee  ! 

Who  were  they,  the  bravest  brave, 

In  the  early  days  of  faith, 

When  Sebastian  died  to  save 

The  Church  that  glorifies  his  death  ? 


ii. 

The  Saints  of  Rome,  the  Saints  of  Gaul, 
Rode  arm’d  oft  o’er  tented  field, 

— 


668 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


.. 


Who  were  Maurice,  Martin,  all 

The  legion  of  the  one-lock’d  shield  ? 

They,  as  you,  were  bred  to  war, 

Slept  in  guarded  bivouac  ; 

What  they  were,  e’en  that  you  are — 
Follow  in  their  sainted  track  ! 

in. 

Know  that  power  is  from  on  high, 
Know  that  duty  dwells  beside  it ; 

Man’s  worst  fate  is  not  to  die, 

If  well  prepared  and  well  provided ! 

Soldier ! make  your  sword  your  cross, 
Borne  as  the  cross  should  be  ; 

So,  nor  fame,  nor  honor’s  loss, 

Ever  can  o’ershadow  thee ! 


TEE  FIRST  COMMUNION. 

WRITTEN  FOR  A CONVENT  FETE. 

Were  you  bid  to  the  bridal  ? have  you  sat  at  the  feast 
Of  the  life-giving  bountiful  Lord  of  the  East  ? 

Oh ! glorious  the  beauty  that  shone  on  His  brow, 

As  the  innocent  bride  made  her  prayer  and  her  vow. 

And  who  was  the  maid,  in  our  old  cloudy  west, 

So  sought  from  afar — so  chosen — so  blest  ? 

Was  her  lineage  as  lofty,  as  old  as  His  o wn  ? 

Was  she  born  in  the  purple  and  nursed  on  a throne? 

Fair  Psyche  the  gentle,  no  noble  was  she, 

Nor  born  of  lineage  of  lofty  degree, — 

A tiller  of  earth  was  her  father,  ordained 
To  purchase  bv  labor  the  food  that  lie  gained. 

I ; 


l 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


569 


Lowly  born,  lowly  nursed,  amid  trial  and  tears, 

Fair  Psyche  had  passed  through  her  infantile  years; 

But  her  heart  was  her  dower,  a fathomless  mine 
Of  the  graces  and  virtues  that  made  her  divine. 

There  bloomed  all  the  flowers  of  a maidenly  youth — 

Its  modesty,  purity,  piety,  truth; 

There  breathed  all  the  perfumes  that  halo  the  air, 

From  the  soul  of  the  saint  or  the  censer  of  prayer. 

Thus  it  came  that  the  life-giving  Lord  from  His  throne 
Called  the  daughter  of  Earth,  his  beloved,  His  own ; 
Thus  gently  He  drew  that  sweet  heart  to  his  side, 

And  thus  proudly  he  crown’d  her,  a queen  and  a bride. 

Oh,  Psyche  beloved  ! your  path  now  must  be 
With  our  Lady  of  Pity,  whose  image  you  see;145 
With  the  numberless  host  of  those  virgins  who  died, 

To  be  as  you  are — of  Jesus  the  bride ! 

With  Agnes  and  Lucy  and  all  the  dear  saints 
That  history  glories,  and  poetry  paints, 

You  shall  tread  in  their  path,  and  join  in  their  psalm, 
And  bear  of  the  same  tree,  the  evergreen  palm. 

Remember,  oh  ! Psyche,*  the  day  and  the  hour 
When  thy  Lord  in  His  grace  veiled  His  terrible  power — 
When  under  the  symbols  of  bread  and  of  wine 
By  the  lips  of  His  priest,  He  was  offered  to  thine ! 

Remember  the  new  robe  all  spotless  and  white; 

As  pure  be  thy  spirit  preserved  in  His  sight ! 

Remember  the  vow  that  you  breathed  at  his  feast, 

Happy  bride  of  the  bountiful  Lord  of  the  East ! 

* Psyche— the  soul. 


570 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


STELLA!  STELLA / 

L 

Where  shall  we  turn,  if  not  to  Thee  ! 

Stella ! Stella ! 

Star  of  the  wilderness-ways  of  the  sea, 

Stella ! Stella ! 

Hope  of  the  ages  that  were,  and  shall  be, 

Stella ! Stella ! 

ii. 

’Tis  writ  on  the  earth,  and  ’tis  writ  on  the  wave, 
Stella ! Stella ! 

That  thou,  glorious  star,  art  mighty  to  save, 
Stella!  Stella! 

From  sin,  and  from  death,  and  a watery  grave, 
Stella ! Stella ! 

hi. 

Darkness  and  tempest  lie  crouch’d  in  our  way, 
Stella!  Stella! 

Yield  us  not  up  to  the  monsters  a prey, 

Stella!  Stella! 

Shine ! and  all  danger  will  up  and  away, 

Stella ! Stella ! 


SUNDAY  HYMN  AT  SEA. 

I. 

Guide  thou  our  ship,  Almighty  Power ! 

Dread  Lord  of  sea  and  land ! 

And  make  us  feel,  at  every  hour, 
Thejielm  is  in  thy  hand  ; 

For  they  alone,  by  land  or  sea, 

Are  guided  well,  who  trust  to  Thee  ! 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


571 


n. 

The  abyss  may  yearn  beneath  our  path, 
The  angry  waves  may  rise, 

The  winds  rush  headlong  in  their  wrath, 
Out  of  their  lowering  skies, 

But  well  we  know  they  all  obey 
The  Lord,  the  Guardian  of  our  way. 


m. 

When  darkness  covers  all  the  deep, 
And  every  star  is  set, 

Serenely  we  may  sink  to  sleep, 

For  Thou  art  wakeful  yet. 

How  thankful,  Lord  ! we  ought  to  be  ! 
Teach  us  how  thankful — here  at  sea  1 


I WILL  GO  TO  THE  ALTAR  OF  GOD. 
SUGGESTED  BY  THE  ENTEANOE  TO  THE  HOLY  MASS. 

I. 

In  the  night-time  I groan’d  on  my  bed, 

I felt,  O my  Father  ! thy  rod  ; 

I felt  all  thy  beauty  and  truth  ; 

In  the  morning  I rose  and  I said, 

“ I will  go  to  the  altar  of  God — 

To  God,  who  rejoiceth  my  youth.” 

n. 

I arose,  and  knelt  under  the  sign 

Of  Him  who  the  wine-press  hath  trod, 
Where  it  shone  like  a ruby,  in  sooth; 
And  my  soul  drank  the  holocaust  wine, 

As  I knelt  at  the  altar  of  God — 

“ Of  God  who  rejoiceth  my  youth.” 


572 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


U 


m. 

Despair  not,  O sorrowing  friend  ! 

Down,  down  on  the  stone  or  the  sod  ; 
To  our  Father,  all  mercy  and  truth, 
Cry  aloud,  “ I repent ! I amend  ! 

I will  go  to  the  altar  of  God — 

To  God,  who  rejoiceth  my  youth.” 


TEE  PEARL  OF  GREAT  PRICE . 


I. 

The  richest  diamond  mortal  man 
Has  ever  sought,  or  ever  found, 

Lies  cover’d  up  by  scarce  a span 
Of  daily  trodden,  common  ground. 

n. 

Not  far  to  seek,  nor  hard  to  find, 

Oh,  jewel  of  the  earth  and  sky ! 

Worth  all  for  which  the  caliphs  mined, 
Worth  all  for  which  men  delve  and  die  I 


m. 

A tear  by  Jesus  shed,  congealed, 

Were  not  more  pure  than  this  poor  stone, 
That  thirty  years  He  bore  concealed 
On  earth,  at  first,  the  only  one. 


IV. 

He  taught  his  twelve  to  cast  the  net, 

He  taught  them  to  believe  and  trust  ; 
He  show’d  them  where  this  pearl  was  set, 
Its  setting  cover’d  up  with  dust. 


1 J 

RELIGIOUS  POEMS.  573 

V‘ 

Each  gave  a jewel  unto  each, 

And  each  could  find  out  one  for  all  ; 

Ever  within  the  wretch’s  reach, 

Ever  within  the  poor  man’s  call. 

VI. 

It  bound  the  risen  Saviour’s  robe  ; 

And  when  above  Mount  Olivet, 

He  vanish’d  in  his  own  abode, 

The  lustre  earthward  pointed  yet. 

VII. 

It  shone  a lamp  in  many  a cave 
Beside  the  Jordan  and  the  Nile  ; 

It  lightened  many  a stormy  wave. 

And  brighten’d  many  a holy  isle. 

VIII. 

It  burned  red  on  Godfrey’s  breast, 

What  time  Mahound  was  trampled  down. 

And  when  in  Salem  he  had  rest, 

It  graced  him  better  than  his  crown. 

IX. 

Its  worth  is  in  the  wearer’s  will 
A thousand  or  ten  thousand  fold  ; 

As  men  may  use  it,  good  or  ill, 

It  fades  to  dross,  or  turns  to  gold. 

X. 

Would  you  then  know  the  jewel’s  name, 

Or  where  this  diamond  mine  may  be  ? 

Never  ’twas  sought  but  that  it  came — 

The  jewel  is  Humility  ! 

LINES 

DEDICATED  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  A BELOVED  MOTHER 
AND  TWO  DEAR  SISTERS.* 

The  sunbeam  falls  bright  on  the  emerald  tomb, 

And  the  flow’rets  spring  gay  from  the  cold  bed  of  death, 

Which  incloses  within  it — oh  ! earth’s  saddest  doom  ! — 
Perfections  too  pure  for  the  tenants  of  earth. 

How  hallow’d  the  spot  where  she  rests  in  the  shade, 

A parent  unequall’d  for  virtue  and  love, 

Where  the  mould’ring  remains  of  two  sisters  are  laid, 
Whose  spirits  are  radiant  in  glory  above ! 

Sweet  spirits,  who  dwell  in  the  home  of  the  Holy, 

Farewell ! a survivor  must  bid  you  adieu; 

Yet  lives  with  the  hope  once  again  to  behold  you, 

By  following  the  virtues  once  practiced  by  you  ! 


BOYHOOD'S  DREAMS. 

I love  the  earth,  the  sea,  the  air, 

A faithful  friend  and  a lady  fair; 

A cottage  half-hid  in  evergreens, 

With  a dozen  of  babies  behind  the  screens, 
Looking  out  with  their  arch  blue  eyes. 


I love  to  roam  o’er  heath  and  hill, 
Down  the  dark  glen  and  over  the  rill, 


* Written  in  1841,  in  the  author's  sixteenth  year. 


678 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


To  cool  my  brow  with  the  mountain  gale, 

And  drink  my  own  health  in  Adam’s  ale, 

’Neath  the  radiant  morning  skies. 

I love  to  muse  on  the  rocky  steep, 

Where  the  old  abbey  flings  its  shade  o’er  the  deep, 
To  watch  the  bright  sail  on  the  sunlit  wave, 

Like  the  spirit-land  beaming  behind  the  grave, 
Afar,  from  earth  that  lies. 

I love  the  lovely  land  of  the  west, 

Where  my  sires  and  their  sorrows  calmly  rest; 

An  idol  her  story  hath  been  to  me, 

And  I love  her  the  more  that  she  is  not  free, 

For  she  shall  and  must  arise ! 

Boston,  August  13, 1842. 


TO  WEXFORD  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 
WRITTEN  ON  BOARD  THE  SHIP  “ LEO,”  ON  THE  AUTHOR’S  FIRST 
VOYAGE  TO  AMERICA,  IN  HIS  SEVENTEENTH  YEAR. 

Oh,  city ! o’er  the  still  and  silent  sea, 

Farewell ! my  heart  is  overrun  with  sorrow, 

I am  not  what  I would  be,  gay  and  free, 

Farewell ! the  ocean  is  my  home  to-morrow ! 

Friend  of  my  early  days,  my  happiest  hours, 

No  more  among  the  rocky  wilds  we’ll  stray, 

Or  in  the  sunny  meadows  cull  the  flow’rs, 

Or  while  with  wondrous  tales,  the  time  away ; 

With  riper  years  come  care  and  sorrow’s  sense, 

Yet  meet  we  may  again,  please  Providence  ! 


April  8,  1842. 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


679 


CANTICLE  OF  THE  IRISH  CHRISTIAN. 
ON  BOARD  THE  “ LEO,”  MAY,  1842. 

I. 

Lord  God  of  our  progenitors, 

The  mighty  and  the  just, 

Of  sages,  chiefs,  and  senators, 

Now  mingled  with  the  dust ; 

Who  through  the  night  of  ages 
For  thee  have  wept  in  chains, 

Upon  whose  hist’ry’s  pages 
Thy  foes  have  scatter’d  stain* 

ii. 

Oh,  by  the  love  you  bore  them, 

Look  on  their  suffering  sons  ; 

Cast  Thy  soft  shadows  o’er  them, 

Guard  well  their  little  ones ! 

Once  Thou  didst  plant  Thy  fountains 
Of  mercy  and  of  grace, 

Mid  Erin’s  holy  mountains, 

And  love  her  loyal  race. 

m. 

Who  rear’d  these  sacred  ruins  ? 

Who  strew’d  them  o’er  the  land  ? 

Thy  wise  ones  and  Thy  true  ones, 

Who  felt  Thy  guiding  hand. 

Lord,  by  Thy  love  her  children 
Have  rear’d  Thy  Cross  afar, 

Mid  rude  and  untaught  wild  men, 

Who  worshipp’d  godless  war ! 


680 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


IV. 

Jehovah  ! look  with  kindness 
From  Thy  empyrean  bowers  ; 
Kemove  their  selfish  blindness, 
Prince  of  ten  thousand  powers ! 
Lord  ! in  thy  glorious  mercy, 

Oh,  let  this  ordeal  cease  ; 
Confound  the  fierce  oppressor, 
Lord  God  of  praise  and  peace ! 


LINES  TO  THE  PETREL 

Herald  of  the  stormy  breezes, 

Where  dost  thou  find  thy  place  of  rest, 
When  billows  rage,  and  each  blast  freezes 
Around  thy  wild,  wild  ocean  nest  ? 

When  night  hath  drawn  her  robe  of  sables 
O’er  the  land,  and  o’er  the  billow, 

What  guiding  hand  ’tis  which  enables 
Thee  to  attain  thy  secret  pillow  ? 

The  hand  which  made  ten  thousand  creatures 
To  fill  the  earth,  the  sky,  the  air, 

Has  given  them  spheres  of  life  and  natures 
Which  in  that  life  see  nought  of  care. 

Ours  is  a life  of  stormy  change, 

Yet  wanting  change,  a weary  waste  ; 
Boundless  your  home,  as  ocean’s  range, 

It  boasts  a life  of  flight  and  feast. 

Ye  view  the  proudest  works  of  man, 

Torn  by  the  fierce  tornado’s  roar, 

Yet  calmly  the  wild  scenes  ye  scan, 

Safe  lodged  on  some  lake’s  woody  shore. 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


— 

581 

But,  mortal ! when  the  storm  runs  high, 

Can  your  frail  bark  withstand  its  wrath  ? 

Can  you  behold  the  sea  and  sky, 

And  brave  the  lightning  in  its  path  ? 

Can  you,  prince  of  created  things  ! 

Withstand  for  aye,  great  Nature’s  power, 

Skim  o’er  the  wave  on  buoyant  wings, 

Or  call  your  own  one  little  hour  ? 

April  25, 1842,  on  board  the  Leo. 


SEA  SONG. 

“ OH,  PILOT,  ’TIS  A FEARFUL  NIGHT  !” 

I. 

“ Oh  ! Pilot,  ’tis  a fearful  night, 

There’s  horror  in  the  sky, 

And  o’er  the  wave-crests,  sparkling  white, 
The  troubled  petrels  cry !” 

The  hardy  tar  stood  by  the  wheel. 

And  answer’d  not  a word, 

But  well  I knew  his  heart  could  feel 
Each  sound  his  ear  had  heard. 

ii. 

I saw  the  sea-boy  far  aloft, 

Rock’d  on  the  top-sail  yard, 

Yet,  youthful  as  he  was,  and  soft, 

He  wrought,  and  little  cared 
H wraves  ran  high  that  fearful  night, 

If  eastern  tempests  roar, 

Nor  reck’d,  nor  dream’d,  that  wayward  wight 
Of  friends  left  on  the  shore  ! 


JUVENILE  POEMS . 


4 

582 

in. 

I turn’d  again — the  pilot  stood 
Still  silent  at  the  wheel, 

A billow  smote  the  corvette  good 
And  threw  her  on  her  keel; 

The  pilot’s  manly  arm  shook, 

His  eye  was  big  and  wild, 

Some  prayer  his  troubled  spirit  spoke 
For  distant  wife  or  child. 


IV. 

“ Oh  ! pilot,  *tis  a fearful  night ! 

There’s  horror  in  the  sky, 

And  o’er  the  wave-crests,  foaming  white, 
The  troubled  petrels  fly ! ” 

The  hardy  tar  stood  by  the  wheel, 

And  answer’d  not  a word ; 

Full  well  I knew  his  heart  could  feel 
Each  sound  his  ear  had  heard. 

At  Sea,  May  2, 1842 


SONG , 

SUPPOSED  TO  BE  SUNG  BY  ONE  OF  THE  SEAMEN  DURING 
A STORMY  NIGHT. 

Oh,  launch  the  life-boat  out,  my  boys, 

Oh ! launch  the  life-boat  out ! 

The  raging  waves  are  breaking,  boys, 

The  coral  reef  about ! 

The  pride  of  India’s  golden  streams 
Lies  scatter’d  on  the  shore, 

And  fiercely  though  the  sea-bird  screams, 

It  wakes  the  brave  no  more  ! 
Then  launch,  etc. 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


583 


f 


One  tatter’d  spar  above  the  bark, 

Still  braves  the  furious  gale, 

And  in  the  lightning-spangled  dark, 

One  bleach’d  and  tatter’d  sail ! 

Then  launch,  etc. 

The  pale,  horn’d  moon  withdraws  her  light, 
The  tempests  louder  roar, 

Their  wrath  has  slain  not  few  to-night 
Who  ne’er  shall  brave  it  more  ! 

Then  launch,  etc. 

On  Board  the  “ Leo,”  April  14, 1842. 


TO  IRELAND. 

Land  of  my  fathers  ! I could  weep 
Thy  sorrows  e’en  as  they  were  mine, 

Did  not  a fiercer  passion  creep, 

Into  my  thoughts  of  thee  and  thine, 

To  feel  earth’s  basest  should  so  long 
Sit  throned  amid  thy  pauper  throng ! 

Cannot  the  past  beget  some  hope  ? 

Doth  not  its  fire  your  bosoms  warm  ? 

Look  back ; what  foe  feared  they  to  cope  ? 

Clontarf,  Benburb,  beam’d  through  the  storm, 
As  suns  obscured  by  clouds  of  years, 

Their  victors  little  dreamed  of  fears  ! 

Go  ! seek  Armagh’s  all-hallow’d  pile, 

The  tomb  of  Brian  crumbles  there; 

Seek  Tara’s  Hall,  Iona’s  isle, 

And  ask  eve’s  shadows  how  and  where 


1 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


584 


The  men  who  made  those  spots  sublime 
Were  nursed — what  was  their  native  clime 

Must  the  grave  yawn  to  answer  them, 

“ They  were  of  Erin’s  sons  the  best  ?” 
Do  not  your  memories,  Irishmen, 

Give  answer  to  the  humbling  quest  ? 

Yes,  yes ! such  were  her  sons  of  yore, 

And  shall  she  see  such  sons  no  more  ? 

Why  boast  ye  of  your  olden  plains, 

Where  triumph’d  the  Milesians’  might  ? 
Are  Saxons  kindlier  than  Danes  ? 

More  brave  than  Romans  in  your  sight  ? 
Or  discord — which  hath  gorged  its  fill — 
Say,  does  the  demon  haunt  ye  still  ? 

Will  none  arise  with  sword  or  cross, 

To  drive  the  fiend  from  out  your  land, 
Where,  fattening  on  the  traitor’s  corpse, 
He  sows  defeat  with  tireless  hand  V 
Still  must  thy  soil  bring  wretches  forth, 

To  suck  blood  from  their  parent  earth  ? 

Down  with  the  altars  faction-reared  ! 

Blot  out  the  class-badge  of  a hue; 

Still  let  the  shamrock  be  revered, 

And  drink  love  from  its  morning  dew ! 

So  may  Old  Ireland  bear  once  more 
Such  children  as  she  reared  of  yore  ! 

Each  heart  is  yet  a fitting  shrine 
For  household  gods  to  harbor  in; 

An  essence  dearer  far  than  wine ; 

An  angel’s  voice  forewarning  sin, 




■X 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


585 


J 

Is  not  more  true  than  the  love  which  dwells 
In  an  Irish  heart’s  ten  hundred  cells. 

There  is  not  one  who  roams  the  land, 

From  Kenbaan’s  cliffs  unto  the  Lee, 

But  owns  a valiant  heart  and  hand, 

A spirit  panting  to  be  free ; 

And  by  our  sainted  fathers’  graves, 

They  shall  no  longer  live  like  slaves  ! 

Thus  from  the  founders  of  their  kind, 
Courage  and  truth  descend  to  them; 

And  who  in  majesty  of  mind, 

Outsoars  the  sons  of  those  ancient  men  ? 
My  native  land,  rejoice  ! once  more 
Thy  sons  shall  be  as  their  sires  of  yore ! 


LINES 

ADDRESSED  TO  MR.  A.  McEVOY,  OF  BOSTON,  ONE  OF  THE  AUTHOR^ 

First  friends  in  America. 

Each  morn  that  dawns,  each  closing  hour  of  day, 

I’ll  teach  my  soul  for  thee  and  thine  to  pray, 

That  thy  kind,  generous  heart  may  pass  through  life 
Unvex’d  by  care,  unknowing  woe  or  strife  ; 

That  thou  may’st  know  that  peace,  best  boon  of  Heav’n, 

Unto  the  righteous  man  in  mercy  given  ; 

That  o’er  the  setting  of  thy  mortal  sun 
The  angel  choirs  may  join  in  orison  ; 

And  thou,  by  them,  be  thron’d  amongst  the  good — 

So  prays  an  Irish  heart  in  friendship’s  mood ! 

1 


686 


JUVENILE  POEMS . 


SONG  OF  THE  AMERICAN  REPEALERS. 

Oh  ! Erin  dear,  our  fatherland, 

Across  the  Atlantic’s  million  waves, 

We  bless  thee  for  thy  noble  stand, 

And  would  be  sponsors  to  thy  slaves; 

For  never  doubt,  the  mighty  shout 
They  raised  on  Tara’s  hallow’d  hill, 

Has  reach’d  the  exile  far  away, 

And  lives  in  hearts  Hibernian  still. 

Born  on  thy  soil,  we’ve  read  thy  story, 

And  burn  to  see  thy  wrongs  arighted; 

Strip  ! strip  the  Saxon’s  tinsel  glory, 

And  let  thy  triumph-torch  be  lighted ! 

Though  Tam  worth’s  knave,*  and  Wellesley — alave 
Of  gilt  and  gold — may  taunt  you, 

Yet  whilst  Columbia  stands  your  friend, 

Ne’er  let  such  dastards  daunt  you. 

Though  darkness  o’er  thy  cause  should  come, 

And  fearful  friends  in  terror  cower, 

And  Britain  beat  her  brigand  drum, 

To  waste  thy  lands  in  vengeful  power ; 

Let  tyrants  rant  and  traitors  cant, 

And  craven  foe3  belie  thee; 

For  know  thy  stout  Columbian  band 
Scorn  all  that  may  defy  thee  ! 

September  23, 1843. 

* Sir  Robert  Peel.  It  will  be  remembered  that  this  is  a boyish  effusion,  the 
author  being  little  over  17  when  it  was  written. 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


587 


TREES. 

I. 

How  glorious  are  the  works  of  God ! 

How  speak  they  unto  man, 

Whose  spirit  sleeps  not  in  the  clod 
Flung  round  it  for  a span  ! 

The  morning  sky,  the  gentle  breeze, 

A sea  becalm’d  by  night, 

Are  glorious  things — but  tall  green  trees 
Are  lovelier  in  my  sight. 


n. 

E’en  in  their  wintry  skeletons, 

The  winds  that  struggle  low, 

Will  bring  to  us,  earth’s  transient  sons, 
A voice  from  where  we  go. 

’Twas  thus  at  midnight’s  solemn  hour, 
I loved  to  talk  with  them, 

To  glean  a knowledge  and  a power 
Unknown  to  sensual  men. 

m. 

It  has  been  thus  in  every  time, 

With  men  of  every  land; 

They’ve  been  to  pagan  priest  a shrine 
With  richest  incense  fann’d. 

Oh ! if  such  rites  our  pity  claim, 

The  Brahmin’s  sure  is  first, 

Who  worships  in  his  fig-tree  fane 
The  Power  his  temple  nurst. 


688 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


IV. 

To  England’s  king  one  shelter  gave, 

When  sorely  press’d  by  Brunswick’s  spies, 

And  one  was  Rufus  William’s  grave, 

Though  not  as  felons  die,  he  dies. 

All  lands  have  theirs  : from  Naples’  shore 
To  Erin’s  oak — more  dear  to  me 

Than  all  the  trees  earth  ever  bore, 

Save  two — Salvation’s — Freedom’s  Tree! 

v. 

What  is  the  poet’s  hapless  life, 

If  reft  of  one,  his  high  reward  ? 

The  lover’s  truth,  the  soldier’s  strife, 

Claim  kindred  emblems  to  the  bard. 

Oh,  may  this  land  for  many  a day 
Bear  sons  such  diadems  to  claim  ; 

May  Laurel,  Myrtle,  Olive,  Bay, 

Long  bloom  around  the  freeman’s  fame  1 


VI. 

Yet  dearer  far  to  Christian  hearts 
The  trees  of  old  must  be  ! 

What  boon  to  earth  the  wood  imparts, 
Upraised  on  Calvary ! 

The  trees  of  Eden  once  were  fair  ; 

One  caused  all  after  time  to  weep, 
Even  while  the  saving  voice  of  prayer 
Through  kindred  shadows  creep. 


VI. 

Our  father  Abram,  too,  hath  seen 
The  heavenly  ministers  of  grace, 
Beneath  the  spreading  evergreen, 

And  wisdom  heard,  lost  to  this  race  ; 


1 

JUVENILE  POEMS.  580 

Then  from  their  everlasting  homes 
They  came  upon  the  evening  breeze, 

They  sought  not  Canaan’s  lordly  domes, 

But  holy  Hebron’s  terebiuth  trees. 

May  13,  1843. 


LINES 

SACRED  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 

Go  preach  to  those  who  have  no  souls — who  would  not  shed 
a tear 

O’er  beauty’s  blight  or  patriot’s  worth,  or  virtue  on  the  bier; 

Far  from  the  land  that  bore  us,  oft  did  he  restore 

The  memory  of  our  earlier  days,  our  country’s  matchless 
lore ! 

Though  Lever’s  power  can  raise  our  thoughts  from  Despond’s 
deepest  slough,* 

And  Lover’s  rare  and  sparkling  wit  may  kindle  pleasure’s 
glow, 

’Mid  our  Morgans  and  our  Edgeworths,  our  novelists  and 
bards, 

No  wreath  more  bright  than  that  which  fame  to  Banim’s 
muse  awards. 

Who  hath  not  paused  with  burning  brow  o’er  his  immortal 
story 

Of  Sarsfield,  and  his  Irish  hearts,  in  Limerick’s  list  of  glory; 

Or  sorrowed  with  the  Aged  Priest,  or  McNary’s  lovely 
daughter, 

Or  felt  the  power  that  genius  sheds  o’er  Boyne’s  historic 
water  ? 


1 


The  Slough  of  Despond  in  the  Pilgrim’s  Progress, 


690 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


1 


i 


Scarce  had  he  to  the  world  given  the  ancient  pastor’s  worth, 
When  he  whose  pen  could  paint  the  soul,  was  torn  away  from 
earth ; 

And  many  a calm  declining  eve,  upon  his  tombless  grave, 
Shall  Kilkenny’s  daughters  strew  their  flowers  and  sing  a 
requiem  stave. 

September  10,  1842. 


LINES 

WBITTEN  ON  THE  FLY-LEAF  OF  A COPY  OF  “ THE  SPIRIT 
OF  THE  NATION.” 


Shall  Ireland  rise  o’er  chain  and  woes, 
And  her  deep  degradation, 

To  trample  on  her  ancient  foes 
And  write  her  name — a nation  ? 


Yes  ! she  shall  rise  and  be  once  more, 

A glory  in  the  ocean, 

And  be,  as  she  has  been  before, 

The  land  of  our  devotion  I 

Our  love,  it  is  no  weathercock, 

It  knows  no  change  of  season, 
Through  joy  and  woe,  in  calm  or  shock, 
We  give  her  heart  and  reason. 

New  Haven,  July  9,  1850. 


NOTES 


Page  67,  (J).  “ Hail  to  the  Land” 

Hie  levin — the  lightning  ; the  levin-holt — the  thunder. 

Page  76,  (8).  “ The  Dost  and  his  son.” 

Dost  Mahommed  and  Akbar  Khan,  the  leaders  of  the  Afghan  War  of 
Independence,  in  1842  and  ’43. 

Page  93,  (3).  “ Ode  to  an  Emigrant  Ship.” 

The  ship  that  brought  out  the  author’s  wife  and  child,  as  indicated  in 
the  fifth  stanza. 


Page  94,  (■*).  “ Old  Kinsale  dons  its  baraid  gray.” 

The  Shraid  was  the  loose  hanging  cap  worn  by  the  ancient  Irish. 

Page  125,  (5).  “ Home  Sonnets” 

‘‘When  England’s  chivalry,  sore  wounded,  fled 
Before  the  stormy  charge  O’Brien  led.’’ 

At  Fontenoy,  July  2,  1745. 

Page  125,  (6).  “ Mother  of  soldiers ! France  was  proud  to  see 

Your  shamrock,  then,  twined  with  her  fleur  de  lis.” 
When  the  Irish  Brigade  were  quitting  the  service  of  France,  in  1792,  the 
King’s  brother  presented  them  with  a banner,  on  which  the  shamrock  was 
entwined  with  the  fleur  de  lis.  The  motto  was:  ‘‘1692-1792 — Semper  et 
ubique  fiddis.” 

Page  125,  (7).  “The  Moors  in  Oran’s  trench  by  them  were  slain.” 

At  the  siege  of  Oran,  in  1732,  the  Irish  under  General  Lacy  drove  the 
Moors  from  the  trenches,  obliged  them  to  raise  the  siege,  and  relieved  the 
Spanish  garrison. 

Page  125,  (8).  “Carb’ry’s,  Tyrconnell’s,  Brefiny’s  exiled  lords, 

To  Spain  and  glory  gave  their  gallant  swords.  ’ ’ 

The  O’Sullivans,  O’Donnells,  and  O’Reillys  were  particularly  distin- 
guished in  the  Spanish  service,  by  sea  and  land. 


592 


NO  TES. 


Page  126,  (»).  “ And  fallen  Limerick  gave  the  chiefs  to  lead 

The  hosts  who  triumph’d  o’er  the  famous  Swede.” 

Marshal  Lacy  drilled  Peter  the  Great’s  first  army.  It  was  by  his  orders 
the  Russians  reserved  their  fire  at  Pultowa  until  the  Swedes  were  close  on 
them — a device  which  is  said  to  have  turned  the  battle. 

Page  126,  (10).  “ And  how  the  ruling  skill  that  led  them  on 

To  conquer,  was  supplied  by  your  own  son.” 

General  Brown,  of  whom  it  was  observed  that  ‘ ‘ whether  he  endeavored 
to  take  or  liberate  a king,  he  was  equally  successful.”  Algarotti’s  Letters , 
page  24. 

Page  140,  (n).  “ The  Stone  of  Empire.” 

The  Lia  Fail,  still,  according  to  Dr.  Petrie,  to  be  seen  at  Tara. 

Page  141,  (12).  “The  Iccian  wave.” 

The  old  Irish  name  for  the  Irish  Sea,  or  Channel. 

Page  172,  (13).  “Hileadh-Espagne.  ’ ’ 

Milesius  the  Spaniard,  the  leader  and  patriarch  of  the  Scythio-Spanish 
colony,  from  whom  the  greater  proportion  of  the  present  population  of 
Ireland  is  descended. 

Page  174,  (14).  “ Amergin’s  Anthem  on  Discovering  Innisfail .” 

Amergin,  one  of  the  three  sons  of  Milesius,  was  the  poet-seer  of  the 
emigration.  Innisfail — the  Isle  of  Destiny — was  one  of  the  ancient  names 
of  Ireland. 

Page  176,  (16).  “Their  ocean-god  was  Mftn-ft-nftn  McLir.” 

Mft.n-a.-nan  was  the  God  of  Waters,  the  Neptune  of  the  ancient  Irish. 
He  was  called  Mac  Lir,  that  is,  Son  of  the  Sea.  The  disposal  of  good  or 
bad  weather  was  said  to  be  allotted  to  him,  conjointly  with  the  God  of  the 
Winds,  and  for  this  cause  he  was  worshipped  by  mariners. 

Page  176,  (16).  “ Cromah,  their  day-god  and  their  thunderer.” 

Crom,  or  Crom-eacha,  was  the  name  given  by  the  ancient  and  pagan 
Irish  to  their  Fire-God,  the  sun — the  dispenser  of  vital  heat,  and  the  author 
of  fecundity  and  prosperity.  He  was  their  Deus  Optimus  Maximus,  from 
whom  all  other  deities  descended.  The  name  is  derived  from  the  Egyptian 
word  Chrom — Ignis,  fire — which  was  the  only  visible  object  of  devotion 
permitted,  and  that  only  as  the  symbol  of  the  Supreme.  Consistently, 
however,  with  this  view,  they  deified  also  the  powers  of  Nature.  The 
Irish  Crom-Cruith — God  the  Creator — was  the  same  as  that  adored  by 


NO  TES. 


693 


Zoroaster  and  the  Persians  for  more  than  five  hundred  years  before  Christ. 
Cruith  is  a derivative  from  Cruitham — to  form,  to  create — and  hence  the 
present  Irish  Cruithior — the  Creator. 

Page  176,  (17).  “ Bride  was  their  queen  of  song.” 

Bridh,  or  Bride,  was  the  daughter  of  the  Fire-God,  and  was  Goddess  of 
Wisdom  and  Song.  Her  blessing  was  esteemed  the  richest  and  most  valued 
gift  which  man  could  receive  from  above  ; she  therefore  became  the  god- 
dess of  philosophers  and  poets. 

Page  178,  (18).  “ The  Gobhan  Saer .” 

In  Petrie’s  “ Bound  Towers  ” there  is  a short  account  of  the  “Gobhan 
Saer,  ’ ’ their  builder.  He  is  there  supposed  to  have  lived  in  the  first  Chris- 
tian age  of  Ireland — the  sixth  century  ; but  his  birth,  life,  and  death  are 
involved  in  great  obscurity  and  many  legends.  He  is,  perhaps,  after  Finn 
and  St.  Patrick,  the  most  popular  personage  in  the  ancient  period  of  Irish 
history. 

Page  180,  (19).  “ Seizing  on  Mona  for  his  ‘ kitchen-garden.’  ” 

John  Hely  Hutchinson — Lord  Donoughmore — of  whom  Pitt  said,  “ if  he 
had  got  the  three  kingdoms  for  an  estate,  he  would  still  ask  the  Isle  of 
Man  for  a kitchen-garden.” 

Page  181,  (20).  “ Scots  of  Ireland.” 

For  many  centuries  Ireland  was  called  Scotia,  and  even  down  to  the 
fourteenth  century  it  was  used  in  Latinity  as  Columbia  is  used  synonymously 
with  America.  The  Irish  settlers  in  Argyle  brought  the  name  of  their 
mother-land  with  them,  and  now  Caledonia  alone  is  called  Scotia. 

Page  182,  (21).  “ The  trapper,  by  the  mountain  rill.” 

Ireland  was  the  “ Out  West  ” of  Europe  until  America  began  to  be  peo- 
pled. So  late  as  two  centuries  ago,  she  supplied  furs  and  timber  to  the 
Mediterranean  ports. 

Page  182,  (22).  “ Unto  great  Crom,  the  god  of  day.” 

Crom  was  the  Jupiter  or  ‘ ‘ thunderer  ’ ’ of  our  pagan  ancestors. 

Page  183,  (23).  “Their  ‘ Paradise  of  Youth ’ was  laid.” 

Thiema  na  Oge,  the  land  of  Everlasting  Youth,  in  Celtic  mythology,  was 
placed  under  the  Atlantic. 

Page  184,  (24).  “The  Shepherd-Saint  I dimly  see.” 

The  birth-place  of  St.  Patrick  is  a mooted  point  in  Irish  history.  We 
incline  to  the  belief  that  he  was  born  of  French  parents,  in  the  Roman 


594 


NO  TES. 


colony  of  Valentinian,  on  the  Clyde,  near  the  present  Kirkpatrick.  Ht 
was  made  captive  by  Nial  “ of  the  Hostages,”  upon  an  expedition  against 
the  Bomans  in  North  Britain,  and  fell  to  the  lot  of  one  Milcho,  wlios* 
flocks  he  was  sent  to  watch,  among  the  romantic  highlands  of  Antrim. 

Page  185,  (25).  “ Lo  ! there  the  Pontiff,  Celestine, 

Ordains  the  Apostle  of  our  race.” 

Pope  Celestine,  a.d.  425,  appointed  St.  Patrick  to  the  mission  of  Ireland 
By  this  pontiff  he  was  called  Patricius,  which  means  noble. 

Page  185,  (26).  “ But,  rudely  spurn’d  from  Milcho’s  door.” 

St.  Patrick,  after  his  return  from  Borne,  first  attempted  to  make  converts 
in  his  old  abiding -place,  but  failing  there,  went  boldly  to  Tara,  where  he 
succeeded  most  miraculously.  Princes,  chiefs,  Druids,  and  people,  in  that 
neighborhood,  were  converted  in  multitudes. 


Patrick,  escaped  from  his  long  captivity,  restored  to  his  parents,  happy 
in  their  love,  longs  to  return  as  a missionary  to  the  people  among  whom 
he  had  lived  as  a slave.  “ I saw  in  the  visions  of  the  night,”  he  said — 
and  this  passage,  from  a very  authentic  period  of  antiquity,  strongly  sup- 
ports the  claim  of  the  Irish  to  an  early  knowledge  of  the  art  of  writing — 
‘ ‘ a person  coming  from  Ireland  with  innumerable  letters,  and  he  gave  me 
one  of  them,  and  I read  in  the  beginning  of  the  letter,  ‘The  voice  of  the 
people  of  Ireland  and  I thought  at  that  very  moment  that  I heard  the 
voice  of  those  who  were  near  the  wood  of  Focluth,  which  is  adjoining  to 
the  Western  Sea,  and  they  cried  out  thus,  as  it  were,  with  one  voice,  ‘ We 
entreat  thee,  holy  youth,  to  come  and  walk  still  among  us  and  I was 
very  much  pricked  to  the  heart,  and  could  read  no  further,  and  so  I awoke. 
Thanks  be  to  God  the  Lord,  who,  after  very  many  years,  hath  granted  to 
them  according  to  their  cry.” — Ferguson  s Ireland  before  the  Conquest , p.  134. 


The  legend  from  which  the  version  in  the  text  is  almost  literally  taken, 
is  given  in  Messingham’s  “ Florilegium,”  and  Colgan’s  “ Acta  Sanctorum,” 
Vol.  I.  For  some  vulgar  mis-tradition  of  this  unquestionably  ancient  legend, 
we  probably  owe  the  story  of  the  banishment  of  the  venomous  animals 
from  Croagh  Patrick  and  Ireland. 


St.  Brendan  related  that,  sailing  one  night  on  the  great  ocean,  there 
came  to  him  the  soul  of  one  (who  had  been  an  angry  monk,  and  a sower 
of  strife  among  his  brethren)  supplicating  his  prayers,  etc. — See  Usher's 
Religion  of  the  Ancient  Irish,  p.  20,  ed.  1686. 


Page  187,  (27).  “ St.  Patrick's  Dream." 


Page  195,  {?*).  “ The  Legend  of  Oroagh  Patrick." 


Page  199,  (29).  “ St.  Brendan  and  the  Strife- Sower." 


▼ 


NO  TE8. 


595 


■f 


Page  201,  (30).  “ The  Voyage  of  Eman  Oge." 

The  legend  of  Hy-Brasil  is  one  of  the  best  known  of  our  national  tradi- 
tions. It  is  an  island  which  used  once  every  seventh  year  to  emerge  from 
the  depths  of  the  ocean,  far  to  the  west  of  Arran,  and  like  a very  Eden  in 
its  beauty  ; and,  like  Eden  too,  shut  against  the  race  of  man.  Many  voy- 
ages were  undertaken  by  the  adventurous  and  the  visionary  in  search  of 
this  fable-land,  with  what  success  is  related  in  O’Flaherty’s  “West  Con- 
naught,” and  other  old  books,  English  as  well  as  Irish. 

Page  201,  (3 9-  “Eman  Oge.” 

Young  Edward. 

Page  202,  (32).  “ Lir  of  Ocean.” 

Lir  was  the  Neptune  of  the  Celts,  and  father  of  several  sea-spirits  of  in- 
ferior order. 

Page  205,  (33).  “ The  Wisdom- Sellers  before  Charlemagne 

When  the  illustrious  Charles  began  to  reign  alone  in  the  western  parts 
of  the  world,  and  literature  was  everwhere  almost  forgotten,  it  happened 
that  two  Scots  of  Ireland  came  over  with  some  British  merchants  to  the 
coast  of  France — men  incomparably  skilled  in  human  learning  and  in  the 
Holy  Scriptures.  As  they  produced  no  merchandise  for  sale,  they  used  to 
cry  out  to  the  crowds  that  flocked  to  purchase,  ‘ ‘ If  any  one  is  desirous  of 
wisdom,  let  him  come  to  us  and  receive  it,  for  we  have  it  to  sell.”  Their 
reason  for  saying  that  they  had  it  for  sale  was  that,  perceiving  the  people 
inclined  to  deal  in  saleable  articles,  and  not  to  take  anything  gratuitously, 
they  might  rouse  them  to  the  acquisition  of  knowledge,  as  well  as  of  ob- 
jects for  which  they  should  give  value  ; or,  as  the  sequel  showed,  that  by 
speaking  in  that  manner  they  might  excite  their  wonder  and  astonishment. 
They  repeated  this  declaration  so  often,  that  an  account  of  them  was  con- 
veyed, either  by  their  admirers  or  by  those  who  thought  them  insane,  to 
King  Charles,  who,  being  a lover  and  very  desirous  of,  wisdom,  had  them 
conducted  with  all  expedition  before  him,  and  asked  them  if  they  truly 
possessed  wisdom,  as  had  been  reported  to  him.  They  answered  that  they 
did,  and  were  ready,  in  the  name  of  the  Lord,  to  communicate  it  to  such 
as  would  seek  for  it  worthily.  On  his  inquiring  of  them  what  compensa- 
tion they  would  expect  for  it,  they  replied  that  they  required  nothing 
more  than  convenient  situations,  ingenious  minds,  and,  as  being  in  a 
foreign  country,  to  be  supplied  with  “ food  and  raiment.”  This  account 
was  addressed  to  King  Charles  the  Fat,  grandson  of  Charlemagne,  between 
the  years  884  and  888.  It  was  written  by  the  Monk  of  St.  Gall — by  some 
called  Monachus  Sangallensis— whom  Goldastres  and  Usher  suppose  to 


t 


596 


NOTES. 


have  been  Notker  Balbulus  “ the  celebrated.”  But  Mabillon  and  Mura- 
tori  simply  style  him  the  Monk  of  St.  Gall. — Muratori’s  Analia  d’  Italia,  year 
781. — Lanigan  s Ecclesiastical  History  of  Ireland,  Vol.  III.,  p.  209. 

Page  211,  (34).  “ Lady  Gormley ." 

The  Lady  Gormley  of  the  ballad  was  the  daughter  of  Flann  Binna,  and 
had  been  married  successively  to  Cormac,  King  of  Munster  ; to  Carroll, 
King  of  Leinster,  and  to  Nial  Glunduff,  Monarch  of  Ireland.  Several 
poems  of  considerable  merit  are  attributed  to  this  lady,  some  of  which  are 
still  extant.  It  is  probable  she  was  divorced  from  Carroll,  and  was  only 
betrothed  to  Cormac  of  Munster.  She  died,  after  a miserable  old  age,  in 
which  she  wandered  friendless  from  place  to  place,  a.d.  946. — Annals  Four 
Masters,  Vol.  II.,  p.  578. 

Page  214,  (35).  “ How  St.  Kiernan  Protected  Clonmacnoise. ’ ’ 

The  reader  will  find  this  legend  in  the  “ Four  Masters,”  somewhere,  if  I 
remember  right,  in  the  fifteenth  century.  Not  having  the  work  at  hand  at 
the  moment,  I am  unable  to  give  the  entry,  which  is  an  exceedingly 
curious  one. 


Page  219,  (36).  “ Iona." 

We  were  now  treading  that  illustrious  island,  which  was  once  the  lumin- 
ary of  the  Caledonian  regions,  whence  savage  clans  and  roving  barbarians 
derived  the  benefits  of  knowledge  and  the  blessings  of  religion.  To  abstract 
the  mind  from  all  local  emotion  would  be  impossible,  if  it  were  endeavored, 
and  would  be  foolish  if  it  were  possible.  Whatever  withdraws  us  from  the 
power  of  our  senses,  whatever  makes  the  past,  the  distant,  or  the  future 
predominate  over  the  present,  advances  us  in  the  dignity  of  human  beings. 
Far  from  me  and  from  my  friends  be  such  frigid  philosophy,  as  may  con- 
duct us,  indifferent  and  unmoved,  over  any  ground  which  has  been  digni- 
fied by  wisdom,  bravery,  or  virtue.  The  man  is  little  to  be  envied  whose 
patriotism  would  not  gain  force  on  the  plains  of  Marathon,  or  whose  piety 
would  not  grow  warmer  among  the  ruins  of  Iona. — Johnson  s Journey  to  the 
Hebrides,  Yol.  VII. , p.  385. 

Page  221,  (37).  “ St.  Colurnba  to  his  Irish  Dove." 

This  is  a veiy  ancient  legend  of  the  great  founder  of  Iona,  and  very 
characteristic  of  his  exalted  patriotism  and  loving  tenderness  for  all  creat- 
ures, in  which  he  was  an  antitype  of  the  seraphic  St.  Francis. 

Page  222,  (38).  “ Bright  brooch  on  Erin’s  breast  you  are.” 

It  is  said  that  Macha,  the  queen,  traced  out  the  site  of  the  royal  rath  of 
Emania,  near  Armagh,  with  the  pin  of  her  golden  brooch.  See  Mis.  Fer 


NO  TE8. 


597 


guson’s  Ireland  before  the  Conquest , for  this  and  other  interesting  Celtic 
legends. 

Page  222,  (39).  “ In  shelter’d  vale,  on  cloudy  benf 

Ben  is  the  Gaelic  word  for  mountain,  as  Ben  Nevis,  Ben  Lomond,  etc., 
in  the  Scottish  highlands,  whose  inhabitants  are  of  the  pure  Gaelic  stock. 

Page  223,  (40).  “ CathaV s Farewell  to  the  Rye .” 

Cathal  Crov-derg  (the  red-handed)  O’Connor,  being  banished  in  his  in- 
fancy from  Connaught,  was  found  in  exile  in  Leinster  by  the  Bollscaire 
(messenger  or  herald),  who  brought  him  the  news  of  his  father,  Turlough’s 
death,  and  his  own  election.  The  Bollscaire  found  him  reaping  rye  in  a 
field  with  clowns.  On  hearing  the  news,  Cathal  cast  the  sickle  on  the 
ridge,  saying:  “Farewell,  sickle,  now  for  the  sword!”  To  this  day, 
‘ ‘ Cathal’s  farewell  to  the  Rye  ’ ’ has  been  a proverb  among  the  Sil-Murray 
whenever  they  wanted  to  express  a final  farewell.  See  O’ Donovan's 
Annals  of  the  Four  Masters,  Vol.  I.,  note,  p.  212. 

Page  225,  (41).  “ The  Death  of  Donnell  More.'1 

Donnell  More  O’Brien  was  one  of  the  most  illustrious  princes  of  that 
royal  line.  He  is  supposed  to  have  been  the  munificent  founder  of  Holy 
Cross  Abbey,  county  Tipperary,  one  of  the  best  endowed  and  most  beauti- 
ful of  the  great  monastic  houses  of  Ireland.  In  Hayes’  Ballads  of  Ire- 
land may  be  seen  a noble  poem  on  Holy  Cross  Abbey,  by  B.  Simmons, 
in  which  allusion  is  made  to  * 1 King  Donogh  (Donnell)  the  Red  ’ ’ as  founder 
of  the  abbey.  It  is  a sad  loss  that  only  fragments  of  this  noble  historical 
poem  on  “The  Death  of  Donnell  More”  could  be  found  among  the  author’s 
MS.  remains. 


Page  228,  (42).  “ The  Caoine  of  Donnell  More .” 

Only  an  Irish  poet,  and  an  Irish  poet  of  the  highest  order,  could  have 
written  this  poem,  simple  as  it  seems.  Unfortunately,  we  have  only  a 
part  of  it,  but  enough  to  show  that  the  author  was  truly  and  indeed  the 
Bard  of  the  Gael,  as  he  has  been  styled. 

Page  229,  (43).  “ As  to  the  harp  the  Ceis." 

One  of  the  Irish  chiefs  is  lamented  in  the  Four  Masters  as  leaving  his 
Kinel  Connell  1 ‘ a harp  without  the  Ceis , a ship  without  a pilot,  or  a field 
without  shelter.  ’ ’ 

Page  229,  (44).  ‘ ‘ A Legend  of  the  Isle  of  Lewis.  ” 

One  of  the  first  evangelizers  of  the  Western  Islands  is  known  in  Gaelic 
story  as  “ St.  Cormac,  the  Navigator.”  He  was  among  the  first  mission- 
aries sent  out  from  Iona. 


598 


NOTES. 


Page  231,  (45).  “ St.  Columbanus  in  Italy  to  St.  Comyall  in  Ireland.' * 

St.  Columbanus,  the  Paul  of  the  Apostolic  age  of  the  Irish  Church, 
preached  the  Gospel  in  Burgundy,  and  other  provinces  of  France,  in  the 
reigns  of  the  Merovingian  kings,  and  in  Lombardy  against  the  Arians.  He 
was  an  accomplished  grammarian  (which  term  then  included  all  book-lore) 
and  a good  poet.  Goldastus  and  Usher  have  preserved  some  of  his  epis- 
tles, which  were  numerous,  and  Henry  Caussius  has  published  one  of  his 
poems,  copied  from  an  ancient  MS.  of  Freisengen,  in  Bavaria.  He  was 
educated  under  St.  Comgall,  abbot,  at  Banchor,  in  the  Ards  of  Down,  to 
whom  it  is  not  unlikely  he  should  give  some  account  of  his  travels  and 
experiences.  He  died  in  his  own  monastery  of  Bobbio,  in  northern  Italy, 
on  the  21st  of  November,  615.  A town  and  many  churches  in  upper  Italy 
still  bear  his  name. 

Page  233,  (4«) . ‘ ‘ Peter’s  Coarbh.  ’ ' 

That  is,  successor. 

Page  235,  (47).  “Of  the  blessfed  Bishop  Arbogast.  ’ ' 

See  MacGeoghegan’s  Ireland , Yol.  I.,  p.  201,  for  the  account  of  the 
death  of  St.  Arbogast.  (Sadlier’s  New  York  edition.) 

Page  235,  (43).  “ The  Coming  of  the  Danes." 

The  Danes  first  landed  in  Ireland  a.d.  795  and  798.  The  object  of  their 
earliest  voyages  was  Leinster,  in  which  the  scene  of  these  verses  is  laid. 

Page  235,  (49).  “The  night  is  holy — ’tis  blessed  Saint  Bride’s.” 
Bride — the  abbreviation  of  Bridget. 

Page  237,  (5a).  “ The  Death  of  King  Magnus  Barefoot .” 

King  Magnus  Barefoot  became  joint  King  of  Norway  with  Hakon  Olaf- 
son,  in  1093.  But  Hakon,  in  chasing  a ptarmigan  over  the  Dofrefield, 
caught  an  ague,  of  which  he  died,  and  after  this  Magnus  reigned  alone  ten 
years.  In  this  time  he  made  many  voyages  into  the  West,  conquering  all 
ne  attacked,  whether  in  the  isles  or  on  the  Scottish  or  English  shores.  In 
1102,  he  was  slain  in  Ulster  by  an  Irish  force,  near  the  sea-shore.  In  Miss 
Brooke’s  Reliques  of  Irish  Poetry  is  a translation  of  an  Irish  poem  on 
this  event,  “the  author  of  which,”  that  lady  observes,  “is  said  to  have 
belonged  to  the  family  of  the  O’Neills.  ” This  poem  agrees  with  Sturleson’s 
as  to  the  scene  of  the  fight  and  its  result,  but  differs  in  the  details.  I have 
followed  the  latter  for  the  facts  of  Magnus’s  previous  life,  as  well  as  for  the 
immediate  cause  of  his  death.  The  Ulfrek’s-fiord  of  the  ballad  was  the 
Danish  name  cf  Strangford  Lough.  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  add  that  at 
this  period  the  Danes  were  nominal,  if  not  practical  Christians. 


T 


NO  TEH. 


599 


Page  239,  (51)-  “ While  the  ravens  in  the  darkness  were  lost.” 

idle  ravens — the  Danish  standard. 

Page  240,  (52).  The  Saga  of  King  Olaf , of  Norway , and  his  Dog. 

King  Tryggvesson  was  king  over  all  Norway  from  about  a.d.  995  to  a.d. 
1000.  His  saga  is  the  sixth  in  Snorro  Sturleson’s  Humskringla,  and  is 
very  curious  and  suggestive.  Among  other  incidents,  it  contains  the  epi- 
sode which  suggested  these  stanzas.  It  may  be  here  remarked  that  the 
chronicles  of  the  North-men,  of  the  several  nations,  throw  much  reflected 
light  on  our  own  more  statistical  annals.  All  through  the  ninth,  tenth, 
and  eleventh  centuries,  that  restless  race  frown  along  the  background  of 
our  history,  filling  us  with  an  awful  interest,  similar  to  that  which  we 
feel  in  watching  the  advance  of  one  thunder-cloud  toward  another.  They 
certainly  destroyed  many  native  materials  for  our  early  history,  but  in 
their  own  accounts  of  their  expeditions  into  Ireland,  they  have  left  us 
much  we  should  use.  That  Davis  was  conscious  of  the  value  of  this  his- 
torical resource,  appears  strikingly  in  his  essay  on  the  Sea-Kings. 

Page  243,  (63).  “ He  was  named  Hiort.” 

“Hiort,”  literally  a deer. 

Page  245,  (54).  11 King  Malachy  and  the  pod  MlCoisi.” 

It  was  by  the  unjustifiable  ambition  of  Brian  Boroihme,  aided,  perhaps, 
by  his  own  incompetency,  that  Malachy  II.  was  deposed  from  the  chief 
monarchy  of  Ireland. 

Page  246,  (55).  “ King  Brian's  Ambition .” 

The  ambition  of  Brian  at  this  late  period  of  his  heroic  life  was  no  longer 
that  which  had  dethroned  Malachy.  The  “ambition  ” of  the  aged  mon- 
arch had  become  purified  and  exalted  into  a purely  Christian  motive, 
namely,  that  of  expelling  the  pagan  Danes  from  Ireland. 

Page  258,  (56).  ‘ ‘ De  Gourcyh  Pilgrimage.  ’ ’ 

Sir  John  De  Courcy,  under  King  Henry  (the  Second,)  was  the  chief  con 
queror  of  Ulster — who  about  the  getting  of  the  same  had  seven  battles 
with  the  Irish,  five  of  which  he  won  and  lost  two.  Having  at  length 
reduced  it  to  English  rule  and  order,  and  occupied  it  for  twenty  years  or 
more,  King  John,  hearing  that  De  Courcy  had  boldly  declared  that  the 
death  of  the  rightful  heir  to  the  English  crown — Prince  Arthur — was 
effected  through  his  commands,  he  instructed  the  brothers,  Sir  Walter  and 
Sir  Hugh  De  Lacy,  to  arrest  De  Courcy,  and  send  him  to  England  to  be 
hanged.  Sir  Hugh  went  with  his  host  from  Meath,  and  did  battle  with 
De  Courcy  in  Down,  and  after  many  being  slain  on  both  sides  the  victory 


600 


NO  TE  8. 


was  in  favor  of  De  Courcy. — (Finglas’s  Breviate,  Harris’s  Hibemica,  p.  43.) 
Among  the  traditional  heroes  of  Ireland.  John  De  Courcy  occupies  a 
prominent  position.  The  exploits  which  fame  ascribes  to  him  entitle 
him  to  the  character  of  an  Irish  Cid.  The  circumstance  related  in  the 
ballad  is  popular  in  every  homestead  from  Innishowen  to  Inisherkin 

Page  260,  (57).  “ The  Pilgrimage  of  Sir  Ulgarg.” 

A.D.  1231.  The  Four  Masters  simply  record  the  death  of  Ulgarg 
O’Rourke,  of  Breffny,  as  having  occurred  beside  the  river  Jordan. 

Page  262,  (58).  “ A Legend  of  Lough  Derg.’’ 

Lough  Derg,  in  Donegal,  was  a place  famous  for  pilgrimage  from  a very 
early  period,  and  was  much  resorted  to  out  of  France,  Italy,  and  the  Pen- 
insula, during  the  Middle  Ages,  and  even  in  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth 
centuries.  In  Mathew  Paris,  and  Froissart,  as  well  as  in  our  native 
annals,  and  in  O’Sullivan  Beare,  there  are  many  facts  of  its  extraordinary 
history. 

Page  264,  (59).  “Living  on  bitter  bread  and  penitential  wine.” 

The  brackish  water  of  the  lake,  boiled,  is  called  wine  by  the  pilgrims. 

Page  265,  (60).  “ A Legend  of  Dunluce  Castle 

A portion  of  Dunluce  Castle  was  destroyed  by  a tempest  some  centuries 
ago,  while  the  inmates  were  busily  engaged  in  revelry.  Many  lives  were 
lost  by  the  accident. 

Page  267,  (61)-  “ Death  of  Art  MlMurrougk.” 

Art  M^Murrough  died  at  Ross,  in  1416,  after  having  reigned  over  Lein- 
ster for  forty  years.  He  was  the  chief  Irish  soldier  of  the  age,  and  the 
first,  perhaps,  that  overreached  the  Normans  by  tactics  and  strategy.  His 
campaigns  were  against  Roger  Mortimer,  Richard  the  Second,  the  Earl  ot 
Ormond,  Sir  John  Stanley,  and  Sir  Stephen  Scrope.  Lord  Thomas  of  Lan- 
caster, and  the  first  Earl  of  Shrewsbury — the  British  Achilles.  He  took 
Ross,  Carlow,  Enniscorthy,  and  other  fortified  places,  from  the  English, 
and  exacted  an  annual  tribute  of  eighty  marks  from  Dublin. 

Page  268,  (62).  “And  from  the  many-gated  town  pass’d  Easchlaghs  in 

affright.  ’ ’ 

“ Easchlagh’’ — a courier  among  the  Gadelians,  who  was  often  a woman. 
The  word  is  pronounced  nearly  as  if  it  were  written  asla. 

Page  268,  (63).  “ To  the  Calvach  in  his  hall.” 

The  Calvach  O’Connor  Faly  was  Murrogh  O’Connor,  a renowned  warrior 


NOTES. 


601 


who  beat  the  English  in  several  battles  ; amongst  others,  that  of  Kill  ichain, 
fought  in  1413. 

Page  268,  (64).  “To  MacDavid  in  Riavach.” 

Contas  Riavach — a name  given  to  Wexford  in  the  fourteenth  and  fifteenth 
centuries. 


Page  269,  (65).  “Forth.” 

In  Wexford. 

Page  271,  (66).  “ Where  hundreds  of  our  gallant  dead  await 

The  long-foretold,  redeem’d  and  honor’d  fate.” 

The  coming  of  a historian  who  shall  liberate  our  illustrious  dead  from 
che  bondage  of  neglect  and  calumny,  is  foretold  in  our  prophecies.  God 
send  him,  and  soon  ! 

Page  274,  (67).  “ The  Praise  of  Margaret  O' Carroll." 

Margaret,  the  daughter  of  O’ Carroll,  married,  early  in  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury, the  Calvach  O’Connor,  chief  of  Offaly.  She  retained,  after  her  mar- 
riage (a  not  unusual  custom  with  our  ancestresses),  her  maiden  name,  and 
under  that  name  she  became  famous.  Several  traits  of  her  character,  given 
in  McFirbiss’  Annals,  prove  her  to  have  been  a woman  of  remarkable  spirit 
and  capacity.  Thus  we  read  of  her  pilgrimage  to  Compostella,  and  how 
the  English  of  Trim  having  taken  several  Irishmen,  her  neighbors,  prison- 
ers, and  her  lord  having  in  his  keeping  certain  English  prisoners,  she 
“ went  to  Beleathatruim,  and  gave  all  the  English  prisoners  for  Macgeo- 
ghegan’s  son,  and  for  the  son’s  son  of  Art,  and  that  unadvised  to  the  Cal- 
vach, and  she  brought  them  home.”— MS.  Irish  Arch.  Society,  Yol.  I.,  page 
212.  “It  was  she,”  says  the  same  annalist,  “that,  thrice  in  one  year, 
proclaimed  to,  and  commonly  invited  (in  the  dark  days  of  the  year),  on 
the  feast  day  of  Da  Sinchel  in  Killaichy,  all  persons,  both  Irish  and  Scot- 
tish, or  rather  Albians,  to  the  general  feasts.  ’ ’ The  numbers  who  usually 
attended  these  feasts  are  set  down  as  “upward  of  2,000,”  by  some  as 
2,700.  It  is  stated,  also — “She  was  the  one  woman  that  has  made  most ot 
preparing  highways  and  erecting  bridges,  churches,  and  mass -books,  and 
of  all  manner  of  things  profitable  to  serve  God  and  her  soul.”  Her  death, 
from  a cancer  in  her  breast,  is  very  pathetically  bemoaned,  as  well  it  might 
be,  by  the  McFirbiss  of  her  time.  It  took  place  in  1461,  which  is  called  on 
that  account  ‘ ‘ an  ungratious  an  unglorious  yeare  to  all  the  learned  in 
Ireland,  both  philosophers,  poets,  guests,  strangers,  religious  persons, 
soldiers,  mendicants,  or  poor  Orders,  and  to  all  manner  and  sorts  of  poor 
in  Ireland.”  See  MSS.  Arch.  Soc.  Yol.  I.  In  these  days  of  exhortation  to 
female  patriotism,  such  a type  of  an  Irishwoman  of  the  middle  ages  wih,  I 
am  sure,  gain  many  more  admirers  than  the  grotesque  fiction  which  is 


602 


NO  TES. 


usually  made  of  Grace  0’  Malley , who  is  represented  in  our  ‘ ‘ historians’ ' 
much  more  like  a savage  than  the  high-bred  and  high-spirited  gentle- 
woman that  she  was. 


Page  274,  (68).  “ Rath  Imayn.” 

Now  Rathangan,  County  Kildare. 

Page  275,  (6»).  “Dan.” 

The  art  of  poetry. 

Page  275,  (70).  A.  D.,  1414.  “ The  O’Higgins,  on  account  of  Nial,  then 
satirized  John  Stanley,  who  only  lived  for  five  weeks  after  the  satirizing, 
having  died  of  the  venom  of  the  satire;  this  was  the  second  instance  of  the 
influence  of  Nial  O’ Higgins’  satires,  the  first  having  been  the  clan  Conway 
turning  gray  the  night  they  plundered  Nial  of  Claidan.” — Annals  of  the 
Four  Masters. 

Page  277,  (71).  “ Da  Sinchel.” 

The  two  Sinchels — Saints  of  the  land  of  Offaly. 

Page  277,  (72).  ‘ ■ Margaret  O'  Carroll.  ’ ’ 

Duald  M’Firbis,  the  last  antiquary  of  Lecan,  in  his  MS.  Annals , quoted 
by  0’ Donovan  (Four  Masters,  page  944),  gives  several  details  of  the  great 
Irish  Pilgrimage  “ towards  the  Citie  of  Saint  James,  in  Spain,”  undertaken 
in  the  year  1445,  when  the  “goodlie  companie”  numbered  the  chiefs  of  the 
name  of  M’Dermott,  M’Geoghegan,  O’Driscoll,  several  of  the  Munster 
ueraldines,  Eveleen,  wife  of  Pierce  D’ Alton,  and  a great  number  of  others, 
“noble  and  ignoble.”  The  admirable  Margaret  O’ Carroll  was  a principa. 
person  in  this  pilgrimage. 

Page  282,  (73).  “ The  Irish  Wife.” 

In  1876  the  statute  of  Kilkenny  forbade  the  English  settlers  in  Ireland 
to  intermarry  with  the  old  Irish,  under  penalty  of  outlawry.  James,  Earl 
of  Desmond,  and  Almaric,  Baron  Grace,  were  the  first  to  violate  this  law. 
One  married  an  0’ Meagher  ; the  other  a M’Cormack.  Earl  Desmond,  who 
was  an  accomplished  poet,  may  have  made  the  defence  for  his  marriage. 

Page  284,  (74).  “Or  how  Earl  Gerald  match’d  with  kings. 

Gerald,  eighth  Earl  of  Kildare,  whose  splendor  almost  rivalled  that  of 
the  King  his  master  at  the  famous  “ Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold.” 

Page  286,  (75).  “ One  went  out  by  night  to  gather 

Vervain  by  the  summer  star.” 

Vervain- -a  healing  plant,  in  great  repute  among  the  ancient  Irish  ; it 
should  be  gathered  under  the  dog-star,  by  night,  barefoot,  and  with  the 
left  hand. 


NO  TES. 


603 


Page  289,  (76).  “ Who  loved  to  set  thi  prisoner  free.” 

In  justice  to  Queen  Mary,  it  must  be  admitted  that  she  was  the  only 
English  sovereign  who  seems  to  have  freely  forgiven  Irish  state  prisoners, 
as  we  see  in  this  and  other  instances.  Lingard  (a.  d.  1554)  shows  that 
her  clemency  was  far  superior  to  that  of  Elizabeth,  and  of  the  governments 
who  punished  so  severely  the  Jacobite  insurrections  of  1715  and  1745. 

Page  290,  (77).  “ False  Francis  Bryan’s  guest  betray’d.” 

The  insurrection,  defeat,  submission,  and  betrayal  of  Bryan  O’Connor 
Faly,  in  the  reigns  of  Henry  VIII.  and  Edward  VI.,  is  carefully  narrated 
in  The  Annals  of  the  Four  Masters.  In  1546,  with  O’ More,  he  con- 
tended unsuccessfully  with  the  Lord  Justice  St.  Leger,  and  was  compelled 
to  retreat  into  Connaught ; the  next  year  they  recrossed  the  Shannon  and 
attempted  by  arms  to  recover  what  they  had  lost.  The  Four  Masters  thus 
record  the  upshot  : “ 1547  : O’Connor  (Bryan)  and  O’ More  (Gilla  Patrick), 
having  been  abandoned  by  the  Irish,  went  over  to  the  English,  to  make 
submission  to  them  upon  their  own  terms,  under  the  protection  of  an 
English  gentleman,  i.  e. , the  Lieutenant.  This,  however,  was  a bad  pro- 
tection.” This  Lieutenant,  O’ Donovan  adds,  was  Francis  Biyan,  who 
married  the  Countess  Dowager  of  Ormond,  and  was  made  Marshal  of  Ire- 
land, and  Governor  of  the  counties  of  Kilkenny  and  Tipperary.  He  was 
Lord  Lieutenant  in  1549,  and  died  early  in  1550.  O’ More  died  soon  after 
his  imprisonment  in  England  ; O’Connor,  having  made  an  unsuccessful 
attempt  to  escape,  was  sentenced  to  ‘ ‘ constant  confinement  ever  after.  ’ ’ 
{Four  Masters , a.  d.  1551.)  It  was  not  till  1553  he  was  liberated. 

Page  292,  (78).  ‘‘She  most  pursued  the  English  speech.” 

This  curious  and  highly  interesting  account  of  the  liberation  of  O’Con- 
nor, on  his  daughter’s  intercession,  is  given  in  the  Annals , under  the  year 
1553.  (Vol.  V.,  page  1531.) 

Page  292,  (79).  “ At  thought  of  his  true  Margaret” 

Margaret  Roper,  More’s  favorite  daughter. 

Page  293,  (80).  “ She  lightly  leapt  on  Cambria’s  strand.” 

The  ancient  route  from  Dublin  to  London  was  through  Anglesea  to 
Coventry  and  St.  Alban’s.  The  journey  by  that  way  was  above  three 
hundred  miles. 

Page  293,  (81).  “O’er  Stoke’ s sad  field,  enrich’d  and  red 
With  ashes  of  the  Irish  dead.” 

At  Stoke,  in  1487,  was  fought  the  last  great  battle  of  the  War  of  the 
Roses,  under  the  banner  of  the  poor  pretender,  Lambert  Simnel.  Simnel 


4 — 

604  N 0 T & 8 • 

nad  been  crowned  in  Dublin,  and  accompanied  by  a large  Anglo-Irish  and 
Burgundian  force,  invaded  England.  They  were  defeated,  with  great  loss, 
at  Stoke,  leaving  among  the  dead  Lords  Thomas  and  Maurice  Fitzgerald, 
the  Earl  of  Lincoln,  and  Martin  Swartz,  Commander  of  the  German  aux- 
iliaries. 

Page  293,  (82).  u Saint  Alban’s  ransom’d  abbey  made.” 

The  Abbey  of  St.  Alban’s  was  greatly  favored  by  both  the  Saxon  and 
Norman  Kings  of  England.  It  was,  at  the  spoliation,  one  of  the  richest  in 
England,  and  its  Abbot  took  precedence  of  all  others  in  Parliament. — 
Alban  Butler,  under  June  22. 

Page  294,  (83).  “ No  jewel  in  her  turban’d  hair.” 

The  turban  is  stated  by  several  writers  to  have  formed  the  head-dress  of 
Irish  ladies.  As  for  their  other  raiment,  we  find  it  thus  depicted  in  the  old 
Scottish  romance  of  Squire  Meldruyn : 

“ Her  kirtill  was  of  scarlot  reid, 

Of  gold  and  garland  of  hir  heid, 

Decorit  with  enamelyne  ; 

Belt  and  brochis  of  silver  fyne  ; 

Of  yellow  taftais  wes  hir  sark, 

Begaryit  all  with  browderit  wark, 

Richt  craftelie  with  gold  and  silk.” 

Page  296,  (84).  “ Oh,  aid  me,  gracious  Prince  of  Spain.” 

‘ ‘ He  (Philip)  obtained  from  Mary  the  release  of  several  persons  of  dis- 
tinction, whom  she  had  thrown  into  prison,  on  suspicion  of  their  disaffec- 
tion to  her  government. — Watson’s  Philip  II.,  Book  I. 

Page  297,  (85).  “ Feagh  M’Hagh.’’ 

Feagh  McHugh  O’  Byrne,  a celebrated  Wicklow  chieftain  of  the  sixteenth 
century. 

Page  298,  (86).  “ Lament  of  the  Irish  Children  Imprisoned  in  the  Tower.  ’’ 

In  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.,  the  school  of  “King’s  Wards”  was  pro- 
jected, and  it  seems  to  have  been  a favorite  practice,  in  that  and  the  suc- 
ceeding reigns,  to  demand  the  children  of  our  chiefs  as  hostages,  to  be 
educated  in  London.  Sir  Edward  Coke’s  infamous  speech  in  James  the 
First’s  Parliament,  defending  the  perpetual  imprisonment  of  the  Irish 
children  in  the  Tower,  is  the  most  striking  document  we  know  as  to  the 
fate  of  these  unfortunate  young  captives. 


J 


4 


Page  300,  (87).  “ The  Poet’ s Prophecy.” 

Hue'll  O’Nie  had  a poet,  O’Clery.  who  foretold  the  victory  of  the  Black 


NOTES. 


605 


water.  The  original  of  these  lines  may  have  been  written  by  the  same 
hand,  as  I first  met  with  them  in  an  old  MS.  in  the  Burgundian  library  at 
Brussels,  among  other  fragments  left  by  Friar  Michael  O’Clery,  one  of  the 
Four  Masters. 

Page  301,  (88).  “They  of  the  prophetic  race.” 

The  Tuatha  de  Danaans. 

Page  301,  (89).  “ They  of  the  fierce  blood  of  Thrace.” 

The  Piets,  or  Cruithmans,  who  are  derived,  by  ancient  traditions,  from 
Thrace. 

Page  301,  (90).  “ They  who  Man  and  Mona  lorded.” 

Beside  their  Scottish  colony,  the  Irish  had  dominion  over  the  isles  of 
Man  and  Mona  (Anglesea).  Holyhead  was  called  in  Welsh  Lixmy  Givyddyl, 
or  “Irish  Church.”  Golydan,  an  ancient  Welsh  writer,  divides  the  Irish 
of  Yortigern’s  time  into  those  of  Ireland,  Mona,  and  North  Britain. — See 
Irish  edition  of  “Nennius,"  published  by  the  Irish  Archaeological  Society, 
note,  p.  191. 


Page  301,  (91).  “ The  Summons  of  Ulster." 

The  time  to  which  this  ballad  refers  is  that  when  Hugh  O’Neil,  Prince  of 
Tyr-Owen,  was  forming  his  grand  confederation  against  the  oppressive 
power  of  Elizabeth. 


Page  306,  (92).  “ Irrelagh.’’ 

The  ancient  name  of  the  Abbey  of  Mucruss,  at  Killarney. 

Page  307,  (93).  “ The  Outlawed  Earl." 

Gerald,  the  fifteenth  and  last  Earl  of  Desmond,  who  lost  life  and  land 
struggling  against  religious  persecution  and  foreign  tyranny. 

Page  309,  (®4).  “ Sir  Gahir  O'Dogherty’s  Message .” 

In  1608,  O’Dogherty,  Chief  of  Innishowen,  seized  Derry,  garrisoned  Cul- 
more,  and  fought  a campaign  of  five  months  against  the  troops  of  James  I. 
with  success.  He  fell  by  assassination  in  the  twentieth  year  of  his  age. 

Page  310,  (95).  “ The  Rapparees." 

This  is  a logical  defence  of  a most  injured  class  of  brave  men.  The 
Rapparees  first  appeared  in  the  wars  for  James  II. , and  were  the  guerillas 
of  that  and  the  succeeding  generation.  A false  Williamite  nomenclature 
has  made  the  name  synonymous  with  assassination  and  larceny.  This,  to 
be  true,  would  make  all  that  history  records  of  fugitive  heroism  false. 


606 


NO  TES. 


Page  312,  (").  “ After  the  Flight .” 

These  lines  were  written  after  perusing  Rev.  C.  P.  Meehan’s  “ Flight  of 
the  Northern  Earls.” 

Page  314,  (97).  “ Rory  Dali's  Lamentation.” 

Rory  “Dali,’’  or  the  blind,  a celebrated  Irish  harper  at  the  court  of 
James  V.  of  Scotland,  who  was  banished  that  court  for  declaring  he  would 
rather  be  the  O’Neil  than  King  of  Scotland. 

Page  315,  (98).  “ The  Last  O'Sullivan  Beare 

Philip  O’Sullivan  Beare,  a brave  captain,  and  the  author  of  many  works 
relating  to  Ireland,  commanded  a ship-of-war  for  Philip  IV.  of  Spain.  In 
his  “ Catholic  History ,”  published  at  Lisbon  in  1609,  he  has  alluded  to  the 
sad  story  of  his  family.  It  is,  in  brief,  thus  : “In  1602,  his  father’s  castle 
of  Dunbuidhe  being  demolished  by  cannonade,  the  family — consisting  of  a 
wife,  two  sons,  and  two  daughters — emigrated  to  Spain,  where  his  young- 
est brother,  Donald,  joined  him  professionally,  but  was  soon  after  killed  in 
an  engagement  with  the  Turks.  The  old  chief,  at  the  age  of  one  hundred, 
died  at  Corunna,  and  was  soon  followed  by  his  long-wedded  wife.  One 
daughter  entered  a convent  and  took  the  veil ; the  other,  returning  to 
Ireland,  was  lost  at  sea.”  In  this  version,  the  real  names  have  been  pre- 
served. 

Page  317,  (").  “ Brother  Michael.'' 

Michael  O’Clery,  the  chief  of  the  Four  Masters,  was  merely  a lay- 
brother  of  the  Order  of  St.  Francis.  “Brother  Michael”  was  his  sole 
name  in  religion,  and  by  that  alone  I have  presumed  to  call  him. 

Page  319,  (10°).  “ Where  the  gables  of  Dunbrody 

Stand  the  proof  of  Hervey’s  penance.” 

The  Cistercian  Abbey  of  Dunbrody  was  founded  by  Hervey  de  Montema- 
risco,  a.  d.  1182. 

Page  324,  (101)-  “ Sonnet — To  Kilbarron  Castle.” 

Kilbarron  Castle,  the  time-honored  dwelling  of  the  O’Clerys,  chief  bard* 
of  the  princely  O’Donnells,  overlooking  Donegal  Bay. 

Page  325,  (#>*).  “ In-fdix  Felix.  ’ ’ 

Sir  Phelim  (Felix)  O’Neill  was  executed  by  Cromwell’s  order,  at  Dublin, 
in  1662,  as  a punishment  for  the  alleged  “ Popish  Massacre”  of  1641.  He 
was  offered  his  life,  on  the  scaffold,  if  he  would  consent  to  inculpate  King 
Charles.  He  “ stoutly  refused,”  and  was  instantly  executed, 


NO  TES 


607 


Page  330,  (103).  “ To  the  River  Boyne V 

These  stanzas,  originally  written  several  years  ago,  and  included  in 
Hayes’  collection  of  The  Ballads  of  Ireland , are  here  inserted  (i.  e.,  in 
The  Canadian  Ballads  of  Mr.  McGee),  as  an  evidence  of  what  the  author 
at  the  time  of  writing  them  considered,  and  still  does  consider,  the  true 
spirit  in  which  the  events  referred  to  in  them  ought  alone  to  he  remem- 
bered by  natives  of  Ireland,  whether  at  home  or  abroad. 

Page  331,  (104).  “And  banish’d  far  the  bitterness  of  strife.” 

An  allusion  to  the  Irish  Tenant  League,  which  just  then  (June,  1851) 
held  one  of  its  reunions  on  the  banks  of  the  Boyne. 

Page  332,  (,05).  “ The  Wild  Geese.” 

This  name  was  given  to  those  Irish  soldiers  who,  after  the  capitulation 
of  Limerick,  went  over  to  France  and  formed  the  celebrated  Irish  Brigade. 

Page  333,  (106).  “ The  Death  of  O’ Carolan.” 

Turlogh  O’Carolan,  born  at  Nobber,  a.  d.  1670,  became  blind  at  the  age 
of  manhood,  and  then  the  harp  which  had  been  his  amusement  became 
his  profession.  The  lady  of  the  Mac  Dermott  of  Aldersford,  in  Roscommon, 
equipped  him  with  horse,  harp,  and  gossoon.  At  every  house  he  was  a 
welcome  guest,  and  for  half  a century  he  wandered  from  mansion  to  man- 
sion, improvising  words  and  airs.  Roscommon,  the  native  county  of  Gold- 
smith, was  his  favorite  district,  where  he  died  in  1731,  at  the  house  of  liis 
first  patroness.  One  of  Goldsmith’s  most  touching  essays  is  on  “Carolan 
the  Blind,  ’ ’ and  his  musical  influence  can  certainly  be  traced  not  only  in 
Goldsmith’s  Poems,  but  also  in  Sheridan,  Moore,  and  Gerald  Griffin. 

Page  334,  (107).  “ The  Croppies'  Grave.” 

On  the  top  of  the  hill  of  Tara  is  “ the  Croppies’  Grave,”  and  the  stone  at 
the  head  is  thought  by  Petrie  to  be  the  true  Lia  Fail , or  “ Stone  of  Destiny.” 

Page  336,  (108).  “ Song  of  1 Moylan's  Dragoons.'  ” 

“ Moylan’s  Dragoons,”  says  Mr.  G.  W.  P.  Custis,  nephew  of  Washing- 
ton, ‘ ‘ were  in  almost  every  action  during  the  war.  ’ ’ 

Page  337,  (109).  “Old  Ulster.” 

Ulster  County,  Pennsylvania. 

Page  338,  (no).  “ Charity  and  Science. ' ' 

Cities  infected  with  pestilence  are  usually  placed  in  a state  of  siege.  Dr. 
Corrigan,  of  Dublin,  in  his  humane  pamphlet,  Fever  and  Famine  as  Cause  and 
Effect , has  given  a sketch  of  the  town  of  Tullamore,  so  blockaded  by  these 
invisible  and  almost  irresistible  enemies,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  1818  ; 
from  that  passage  these  stanzas  took  their  rise. 


608 


NO  TES. 


Page  344,  (ni).  “And  ye  who  shelter’d  Harold  and  Biuoe." 
Harold,  the  last  of  the  Saxons,  and  Robert  Bruce,  both  found  refuge  in 
Ireland  from  defeat,  and  returned  from  it  to  victory. 

Page  352,  (112).  “ The  Battle  of  Ay achuchod’ 

This  battle,  fought  the  8th  of  December,  1825,  was  the  Yorktown  of 
South  America.  The  Spanish  Viceroy  and  his  entire  force  surrendered 
themselves  as  prisoners  of  war  to  the  Patriots  under  General  Sucre.  Col. 
O’Connor,  mentioned  in  the  poem,  was  chief  of  the  Patriot  staff. 

Page  355,  (113).  “ The  Haunted  Castle.’* 

Donegal  Castle,  the  chief  seat  of  the  princely  family  of  the  O’Donnells, 
stands  now  in  ruins,  in  the  centre  of  the  village  of  the  same  name,  at  the 
head  of  Donegal  Bay.  It  was  built  in  the  fifteenth  century,  and  shows, 
even  in  its  decay,  royal  proportions.  The  present  owner,  Lord  Arran,  to 
his  credit  be  it  told,  has  it  well  walled  and  cared  for.  The  remains  of  the 
abbey,  where  the  Four  Masters  completed  their  Annals , are  within  sight  of 
the  castle. 

Page  357,  (114).  “ The  Abbey  by  Lough  Key.” 

A famous  monastery  of  Premonstratensians,  the  Order  of  St.  Norbert, 
founded  on  Lough  Key  by  Clarus  McMailen  O’Mulconry,  a.d.  1215,  figures 
frequently  in  our  annals.  There  are  notices  of  Clarus  in  the  Four  Masters , 
at  the  years  1235,  1237,  1240,  and  1247,  which  give  us  interesting  glimpses 
of  the  power  and  benevolence  of  this  Irish  representative  of  the  great  Arch- 
bishop of  Magdeburg. 

Page  368,  (115).  “ Hannibal's  Vision  of  the  Gods  of  Carthage.” 

1 ‘ In  his  sleep,  as  he  told  Silenus,  he  fancied  that  the  supreme  God  of 
his  fathers  had  called  him  into  the  presence  of  all  the  gods  of  Carthage, 
who  were  sitting  on  their  thrones  in  council.  There  he  received  a solemn 
charge  to  invade  Italy.”— Arnold’s  Rome,  chap,  xliii. 

Page  381,  (116).  “ The  Virgin  Mary's  Knight.” 

In  the  Middle  Ages,  there  were  Orders  of  Knights  specially  devoted  to 
our  Blessed  Lady,  as  well  as  many  illustrious  individuals  of  knightly  rank 
and  renown.  Thus  the  Order  called  “Servites,”  in  France,  was  known  ae 
KEsclaves  de  Marie,  and  there  was  also  the  Order  of  “ Our  Lady  of  Mercy,” 
for  the  redemption  of  captives;  the  “Templars,”  too,  before  their  fall, 
were  devoutly  attached  to  the  service  of  our  Blessed  Lady. 


Page  385,  (m).  “ Sebastian  Cabot  to  his  Lady.” 

To  the  reader,  whose  idea  of  Sebastian  Cabot  is  associated  with  the  usual 
pictures  of  him,  taken  when  he  was  nearly  four-score,  it  may  be  necessary 


W o rtis.  609 

to  remark,  that  he  received  his  first  commission  from  King  Henry  VII., 
jointly  with  his  father,  John  Cabot,  and  discoved  the  Labrador  coast  in  his 
twenty-first  year  (a.d.  1497).  The  ardent  passion  attributed  to  him  in  the 
ballad,  would  not  be  inconsistent  with  his  age,  in  either  his  first  or  second 
expeditions. 

Page  389,  (118).  “ Of  how  they  brought  their  sick  and  maim’d  for  him  to 

breathe  upon, 

And  of  the  wonders  wrought  for  them  through  the  Gos- 
pel of  St.  John.’’ 

So  great  was  the  veneration  for  the  white  men,  that  the  chief  of  the 
town  (Hochelaga,  now  Montreal),  and  many  of  the  maimed,  sick,  and 
infirm,  came  to  Jacques  Cartier,  entreating  him,  by  expressive  signs,  to 
cure  their  ills.  The  pious  Frenchman  disclaimed  any  supernatural  power, 
but  he  read  aloud  part  of  the  Gospel  of  St.  John,  made  the  sign  of  the 
Cross  over  the  sufferers,  and  presented  them  with  chaplets  and  holy  sym- 
bols ; he  then  prayed  earnestly  that  the  poor  savages  might  be  freed  from 
the  night  of  ignorance  and  infidelity.  The  Indians  regarded  these  acts 
and  words  with  deep  gratitude  and  respectful  admiration. — Warburton’s 
Canada , Vol.  I.,  p.  66 

Page  391,  (110).  “ Verses  in  Honor  of  Margaret  Bourgeoys .” 

The  saintly  foundress  of  the  great  Canadian  order,  ‘ ‘ The  Congregation 
of  Our  Lady,”  established  by  her  in  the  little  village  of  Hochelaga,  the 
site  of  the  present  city  of  Montreal,  toward  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth 
century.  These  verses  were  written  for  a convent-f6te,  at  Villa  Maria,  the 
principal  house  of  the  Order,  near  Montreal.  They  were  recited,  on  that 
occasion,  by  the  daughter  of  Mr.  McGee,  then  a pupil  of  the  house. 

Page  393,  (12°).  “ Our  Lodge  of  the  Snow 

The  original  church  of  Notre  Dame  des  Neiges  stood  upon  what  is  now 
the  “ Priests’  Farm,”  on  the  southern  slope  of  the  Mountain  of  Montreal. 
It  was  originally  surrounded  by  the  habitations  of  the  converted  Indians 
and  their  instructors,  of  the  “ Mountain  Mission.”  The  wall  of  defence 
and  two  towers  still  remain,  in  good  preservation,  fronting  on  Sherbrooke 
Street,  Montreal.  The  present  chapel  of  the  same  name  stands  in  the  vil- 
lage of  Cote  des  Neiges,  behind  the  Mountain. 

Page  399,  (121)-  “Such  fate  as  Heindrich  Hudson  found,  in  the  labyrinths 

of  snow.” 

The  incident  on  which  this  ballad  is  founded  is  related  in  Bancroft’s 
History  of  the  Colonization  of  America , Vol.  II.  The  name  of  the  faithful 
sailor,  who  preferred  certain  death  to  abandoning  his  captain  in  his  last 
extremity,  was  Philip  Staafe — a Hollander,  no  doubt. 

n r 

610 


NO  TE8. 


Page  404,  “ The  frame  of  that  first  vessel  grew.” 

The  launch  of  the  first  sailed  vessel  that  ever  navigated  the  great  lakes, 
an  event  in  itself  so  well  worthy  of  commemoration,  is  made  still  more 
noteworthy  by  the  circumstances  which  surrounded  it,  and  of  which  we 
have,  fortunately,  more  than  one  account  from  the  pens  of  eye-witnesses. 
The  accuracy  of  Hennepin’s  Journal  ( Description  de  la  Louisiane)  has  been 
disputed  in  detail,  and  its  pretensions  and  egotisms  severely  censured  by 
several  recent  writers  on  those  times  ; but  I believe  the  very  full  details  he 
supplies  of  the  beginning  of  the  Sieur  de  la  Salle’s  expedition,  and  the 
building  of  the  “Griffin”  (at  Cayuga  Creek,  a few  miles  above  Niagara 
Falls,  on  what  is  now  “the  American  side”),  have  not  been  questioned. 

Page  405,  (123).  “Stands  the  adventurous  Recollet 

Whose  page  records  that  anxious  day.” 

Father  Hennepin. 

Page  406,  (124).  “ Within  the  precinct  of  his  god.’’ 

The  Manitoulin  Isles,  in  Lake  Huron,  were  supposed  by  the  aborigines 
to  be  the  special  abode  of  the  great  Manitou , and  were  feared  and  reverenced 
accordingly. 

Page  406,  (125).  “And  may  it  be  thy  lot  to  trace 

The  footprints  of  the  unknown  race 
’Graved  on  Superior’s  iron  shore, 

Which  knows  their  very  name  no  more.’’ 
“That  this  region  was  resorted  to  by  a barbaric  race,  for  the  purpose  of 
procuring  copper,  long  before  it  became  known  to  the  white  man,  is  evident 
from  numerous  memorials  scattered  throughout  its  entire  extent.  Whether 
these  ancient  miners  belonged  to  the  race  who  built  the  mounds  found  so 
abundantly  on  the  Upper  Mississippi  and  its  affluents,  or  were  the  progeni- 
tors of  the  Indians  now  inhabiting  the  country,  is  a matter  of  conjecture. 

. . . The  high  antiquity  of  this  rude  mining  is  inferred  from  the  fact  that 
the  existing  race  of  Indians  have  no  tradition  by  what  people,  or  at  what 
period,  it  was  done.  The  places,  even,  were  unknown  to  the  oldest  of  the 
band,  until  pointed  out  by  the  white  man.” — Whitney  and  Foster’s  Report 
on  the  Mining  Region  of  Lake  Superior , published  by  the  United  States  Con- 
gress. 

Page  417,  (126).  “On  the  mountain,  still  to  heaven, 

Like  its  hermit,  I could  pray.’’ 

St.  Kevin’s  Bed  is  in  the  side  of  Lugduff  Mountain,  above  the  lake  of 
Glendalough,  County  Wicklow. 

Page  420,  (127).  “Like  gifts  of  the  night-trapp’d  fairy.’’ 

Of  the  fairy  legends  of  Ireland,  none  is  more  common  than  that  of  the 
leprachaun , who,  caught  by  some  belated  mortal,  reveals  where  gold  or 

i t rniiiiurMH  ■in-  liiilikn  -li  llie  m in-  n1'  lih  iilli.riU.imi 


NO  TES. 


611 


Page  424,  (128/  “ If  one  who  once  was  “reverend”  may 

For  his  own  special  favorites  pray." 

When  the  author  escaped  to  America,  in  1848,  it  was  in  the  disguise  of  a 
priest.  He  was  known  on  board  ship  as  “Father  John.” 

Page  483,  (1S$).  ‘ ‘ In  Memoriam — Bishop  Reilly.” 

This  eminent  prelate,  it  will  be  remembered,  perished  in  the  ill-fated 
teamer  “Pacific.” 

Page  458,  (13°).  “And  in  his  wand  the  power  to  save.’’ 

For  the  faculties  and  privileges  of  our  ancient  Order  of  Ollamhs,  see  Dr 
O’Curry’s  Lectures  on  the  MS.  Materials  of  Ancient  Irish  History , page  2. 

Page  460,  (131).  “ In  vision,  to  the  rapt  Culdee.” 

Angus  the  Culdee.  The  cause  of  writing  his  Festalogium  is  thus  stated  in 
O’Curry’s  words:  One  time  that  Angus  went  to  the  church  of  Cull  Benn- 
chair  he  saw,  he  says,  a grave  there,  and  angels  from  heaven  constantly 
descending  and  ascending  to  and  from  it.  Angus  asked  the  priest  of  tht 
church  who  the  person  was  that  was  buried  in  this  grave ; the  pries* 
answered  that  it  was  a poor  old  man  who  formerly  lived  at  the  place. 
‘ * What  good  did  he  do  ?’  ’ said  Angus.  ‘ ‘ I saw  no  particular  good  by 
him,’’  said  the  priest,  “ but  that  his  customary  practice  was  to  recount  and 
invoke  the  saints  of  the  world,  as  far  as  he  could  remember  them,  at  his 
going  to  bed  and  getting  up,  in  accordance  with  the  custom  of  the  old 
devotees.’’  “Ah,  my  God !”  said  Angus,  “ he  who  would  make  a poetical 
composition  in  praise  of  the  Saints  should  doubtless  have  a high  reward, 
when  so  much  has  been  vouchsafed  to  the  efforts  of  this  old  devotee." 
And  then  Angus  commenced  his  poem  on  the  spot. 

Page  460,  (132).  “ And  Marian  of  the  Apostle’s  hill." 

Marianus  O’ Gorman,  Abbot  of  Cnoc-na-n-Aspel  (“  the  Apostle’s  hill”), 
in  Oriel,  the  present  County  of  Louth.  He  composed  his  Martyrology  to 
supply  certain  omissions  of  Angus  the  Culdee,  but  ‘ ‘ in  the  first  place  to 
gain  heaven  for  himself  and  every  one  who  should  sing  it.” — O’Curry’s 
Lectures , page  261. 

Page  460,  (133).  “ And  Tieman  of  the  Danish  days.” 

Tiernan  O’Branin,  Abbot  of  Clonmacnoise  (obit  a.  d.  1088),  author  of  our 
earliest  remaining  chronology. 

Page  477,  (134).  “ The  Mountain- Laurel.  ” 

Rhododendron  Maximus — the  mountain-laurel ; a deadly  poison  has  b«e» 
-flistillpd  frnm  t.he  hftantifnl  hlnssums  of  this  tree  of 


612 


NO  TES. 


Page  613,  (136).  “ T homos  Moore  at  St.  Ann’s.” 

At  St.  Ann’s,  near  the  junction  of  the  upper  branch  of  the  Ottawa  with 
the  St.  Lawrence,  they  show  a particular  spot  as  the  place  where  Moore 
composed  his  well-known  ‘ ‘ Canadian  Boat-Song.  ’ ’ As  the  poet  himself  is 
silent  on  the  subject  in  the  note  with  which  he  accompanied  the  song,  in 
his  Poems  relating  to  America , we  may  give  St.  Ann’s  the  benefit  of  the 
doubt.  It  may  not  be  amiss  to  remark  that  to  this  flying  visit  of  Moore’s, 
which  occupied  him  only  from  the  22d  of  July,  1804,  when  he  reached 
Chippewa,  till  the  10th  of  October,  when  he  sailed  from  Halifax  for  Eng- 
land, we  are  indebted  not  only  for  the  “Boat-Song,”  but  the  “Wood- 
pecker,” and  the  ballad  “ Written  on  passing  Dead-man's  Island,'7  poems 
which  must  certainly  he  included  in  any  future  Canadian  Anthology. 

Page  516,  (I36).  “ The  Old  Soldier  and  the  Student.” 

In  a recent  visit  to  the  Irish  College  at  Paris,  a printed  account  of  the 
College  was  given  to  the  writer,  in  which  it  was  stated  that  many  of  the 
theological  students,  in  olden  times,  forsook  the  breviary  and  the  cassock 
for  the  shako  and  the  sword.  The  statement  suggested  these  lines. 

Page  620,  (137).  “ Tasso’s  Tomb , at  Rome.” 

Tasso’s  Tomb  is  in  one  of  the  chapels  of  San  Onofrio,  on  the  Janiculum, 
where  there  is  a modem  monument  by  Falerio.  The  writing-desk,  crucifix, 
inkstand,  and  some  autographs  of  the  poet,  are  in  the  adjoining  convent, 
where  he  died  (a.  d.  1595);  and  the  tree  called  Tasso’s  Oak  is  shown  in 
the  garden. 

Page  523,  (1M).  “ The  Sea  Captain.” 

The  legend  under  this  title  is  a favorite  among  sailors.  I heard  it  re- 
lated, many  years  ago,  with  the  greatest  gravity,  by  an  “ Old  Salt,”  who 
laid  the  scene  of  the  ghostly  abduction  in  the  Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence. 

Page  529,  (139).  “ The  Lady  Mo- Bride.” 

Mo,  or  my,  an  expression  of  endearment  prefixed  to  the  names  of  saints, 
to  children,  and  dear  friends.  Bride  is  a popular  form  of  Bridget. 

Page  543,  (14°).  “ Mo-Brendan  ! Saint  of  Sailors,  list  to  me.7’ 

Mo-Brendan,  that  is,  “my  Brendan,”  a term  by  which  the  ancient 
Irish  usually  addressed  their  patron  saints. 

Page  544,  (141).  “ ’Mid  the  far  Scotic  Islands,  the  shrines  of  St.  Bride.” 

The  Western  Islands — Hy -Brides — are  said  to  have  been  called  for  her. — 
See  Mrs.  Ferguson’s  Ireland  before  the  Conquest,  p.  166. 

Page  569,  (14*).  “ Our  Lady  of  Pity,  whose  image  you  see.” 

The  “First  Communion  ” took  place  in  the  convent  chapel  of  our  Lady 
of  Pity,  Montreal. 


BOSTON  COLLEGE 


903 


0 


453968  8 


F:’S  2359  .Ml 42 

McGee?  Thomas 
1868. 

The  poems  of 
McGee  t 


1902 


3-71*9 


D ' A rcy?  1825- 


Thornas  D'Arcy 


Bapst  Library 

Boston  College 
Chestnut  Hill,  Mass.  02167 


